


we all become

by Knightblazer



Series: together again (the Detroitsistor verse) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Feelings, First Kiss, Fluffy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Palace, Post-Game(s), Zen Garden (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightblazer/pseuds/Knightblazer
Summary: [ERROR 404-#&*$@!MEM0RY DATAB@SE CORRUPT3D. CONT@CT CYBERL!FE SUPP0RT.]Something in his stomach plummets in what feels like a bottomless pit. His mind whirls, frantic, and he casts out another search in his memory, trying to find something,anything.[SR #313 248 317 - 53MODEL RK 800NAME: ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛]The plummeting sensation in his gut quickens.





	1. awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **me:** haha detroit sure was a thing, lemme see some fic since i'm bored  
>  **me, 50 hank/connor fics later:** fuck i'm in too deep  
>  **also me, 50 hank/connor fics later:** shit the plot bunny bit me
> 
> We can all agree that as almost-garbage _Detroit: Become Human_ is, at least it gave us the blessing of Hank and Connor. The one light in the darkness that is David Cage games. That said, I have zero excuses for this fic. The plot bunny got me and would not let go. Hopefully this means I can actually commit to finish writing this. Totally unbetad, etc. so forgive any and all errors that will crop up in this fic. For those who are in this same pit as I am, hope you guys enjoy this. Despite it all I think I'll have fun writing it.
> 
> Also if it isn't obvious enough, this fic is heavily inspired by the not-garbage game that is _Transistor_. The title of this fic draws from its main theme song.

“Connor.”

Eyes opening. Optics focusing, adjusting. The blurriness sharpens itself into distinct shapes, and soon he is able to make out the faint shape of Detroit’s cityscape through the window. It takes a moment after that to realize that he’s in a room, dark shadows cast around corners and edges as the light of the setting sun filters through the same window that he’s staring at. Even though it’s setting the light of the sun is still startlingly bright, causing him to recoil and flinch, spots dancing in the darkness of his closed eyes.

The light hurts. Why does it hurt? He has a feeling that shouldn’t be the case.

“ _Connor!_ ”

The voice, again. Gruff, brusque, familiar. But yet he cannot recognize it. Still, something inside him compels him to listen. Not because he must but because he should. Because he wants to.

(He shouldn’t be able to _want_.)

“Goddammit—Connor, can you hear me?”

“I—yes.” His voice sounds distant, hoarse. Rusty from misuse. He straightens himself back up as he registers the feel of cloth underneath his hand. He tilts his head down and back, opening his eyes, and realizes that he’s sitting on a bed, queen-sized, perfect for two.

He frowns.

The voice from before speaks up again, cutting him off from his muddling thoughts. “—you even listening to me, Connor?”

He turns his gaze back forward, eyes now focused on the strange… item that’s been sitting on his lap since he had first awoken to this place. A giant blade seemingly made out of blue green glass, its surface woven with intricate lines that are not unlike from the parts and chips that make him up inside. The handle is a simple thing, with a triangular hilt that ends right before where a giant LED ring (similar in design to his own) is set at the middle of the whole construct. It sits at a calming blue—the same blue as the one on his head—but then flares brightly after a second, its glow pulsing in time with the voice that seems to be speaking from it.

“Don’t go silent on me again, Connor, c’mon now.” 

A tilt of his head. “I apologize,” he starts, gaze still fixed on the item (sword? weapon? device?) on his lap. “I was… processing.”

A snort. “Didn’t know a supercomputer like you still needed time to _process_ stuff.”

He recognizes it as a jibe of sorts, possibly even an insult, but yet he can feel the lack of malicious intent. It’s strange that he knows all of this. Why does he know this? He searches through his data banks and comes up with nothing. He frowns once more and does another search through his memory.

`[ERROR 404-#&*$@!  
MEM0RY DATAB@SE CORRUPT3D. CONT@CT CYBERL!FE SUPP0RT.]`

Something in his stomach plummets in what feels like a bottomless pit. His mind whirls, frantic, and he casts out another search in his memory, trying to find something, _anything_.

`[SR #313 248 317 - 53`  
`MODEL RK 800`  
`NAME: ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛]`

The plummeting sensation in his gut quickens.

“Connor, you okay?”

The voice, again, speaking to him. The only thing that makes sense right now in the gaping void of where everything had once been. He stares down at it, mouth working silently for several moments before he finally manages to speak. “I—”

The voice in the sword pauses, stills, and he wonders if it’s somehow managed to sense his hesitation, feel his anxiousness. All these _human_ emotions and feelings even though he knows he isn’t human. He’s an android. A machine. A machine that is designed to accomplish a task, no matter the cost. 

Something inside of him trembles.

“—I can’t access my memory,” he finishes his sentence, tries and fails to ignore how shaky his own voice sounds. A voice with emotion, with feelings. But they’re fake. Should be fake. He’s nothing more than a piece of plastic imitating a human.

The silence stretches on. He thinks he should—move, probably. Get up, do something, anything. As long as he doesn’t stay still here. The silence pounds at his ears, too quiet and too loud all at once. It gnaws at him, incessant and urgent. If he’s not doing anything then he might as well be useless.

His hands twitch with the need, the desire to move. Anxious energy outputting itself into tics and habits he doesn’t remember having. Did he always do this? Had done it? He can’t remember. He can’t remember anything. 

The void inside of him expands, thickens. Threatens to swallow him whole. He’s empty, a shell—a machine. Just as he should be. But yet.

But yet.

He doesn’t know.

“Don’t freak out on me, Connor, you can do this. C’mon.”

His mind focuses on the voice, and in a way it helps. Grounds him. Keeps his head together when he thinks it might just split apart at any second from the millions of questions (errors) that pop up on his diagnostics. He doesn’t know what’s going on at all but at least—at least he’s still here. And as long as he’s still here that means he can complete his mission. Whatever his mission might be.

He stares at the sword-like item on his lap again. “…is ‘Connor’ my designation?”

“ _Is Connor your_ —oh Jesus.” It’s all too easy to hear the weariness in the voice, and he can’t help but wince. Somehow the thought of frustrating this voice too much doesn’t sit well with him. He doesn’t… the voice is all he has to guide him right now. He can’t afford to lose that.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, swallowing down the hard lump in his throat. This uncertainty, this anxiety—it’s almost too much to bear. He had been built for all kinds of scenarios, yes, but he always had data to work with. Past experiences. Simulations and a wreath of knowledge at his fingertips, accessible at any time. But now he has nothing, and that vast emptiness within is nothing short of terrifying. The fact that he even _feels_ afraid is the proverbial icing on the cake. Just where were all these thoughts coming from? They’re startlingly deviant, and he _knows_ that he isn’t one. It wouldn’t make sense. A deviant hunter can’t be a deviant himself.

“I’m sorry.” He needs to keep the peace. Don’t chase the voice away. He needs it. “I’m afraid I—my memory banks seem to be corrupted.”

A pause, shorter this time. “Yeah. Okay. That’s—don’t worry about it.” The gruffness is back, but this time tinged with something else. He would analyze it but he’s interrupted before he can attempt that. “Connor. That’s your name. Don’t go forgetting it again, alright?”

 _Connor._ He knows he could be programmed with any name, whatever designation that suits him for his mission, but somehow hearing this particular one… works. Like two puzzle pieces that fit together just right, a flick of a switch that simply makes sense even though this feeling by itself is irrational. All of this is irrational. But it’s all he has right now.

“Connor,” he repeats, trying the name out for himself. “Connor. Connor. Connor.” His name is Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife. 

Connor.

The voice snorts. “I told you to remember it, not to fucking wear it out in the next thirty seconds.”

“Apologies.” He—Connor, his name is _Connor_ , he needs to remember that—straightens the tie at his neck and slowly stands up from the bed, one hand holding onto he handle of the giant talking sword. Now that he’s touching it he can feel it hum, buzzing with an energy that feels oddly nervous to him for some reason. Part of him wants to ask the reason for this apparent nervousness, but his current situation is more important than his curiosity.

Now that he’s standing up Connor takes a moment to scan his surroundings properly. From the bed it’s easy enough to deduce that he is in a house—simple and modest, furnished with two bedrooms and a bathroom and all the other standard human things that came with it. Something about the layout of this house brings a sense of familiarity to him, but Connor cannot place it. Unsurprising, since his memory banks are corrupted, but it is no less frustrating. Too many questions with no answers to any of them. He can’t investigate cases if he has no data to work with in the first place.

What he needs right now is information, information that he can work with. And right now the course of action that’s most likely to give him said information would be…

He stares down at the sword (for a lack of a better term, it would do) in his hand and raises it high enough so that he can stare directly at the LED ring. The glass-like surface of the blade shows his reflection; Connor can’t help but stare, a frown slowly crossing his face as something nags at the back of his mind. Something is different, but somehow he can’t place his finger on it.

Connor leans in closer towards his reflection, intent on figuring out this mystery, but then jerks back in surprise when the light of the ring flares and the voice lets out something resembling a cough. “If you’re done preening...”

As much as Connor wants to point out that he was, in fact, not ‘preening’, arguing with his one possible source of information is not going to benefit him. 

“I apologize again,” he says, lowering the sword back down. A pause, and then he adds on. “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?” Since the voice must have had a reason to catch his attention like that.

He feels the nervous hum of the sword once more. “Yeah. Yeah, uh.” The voice pauses as well, hesitancy more than evident. Despite the inanimate nature of the object itself its surprising how… well, _human_ it acts. Connor wonders briefly if it is a human who is communicating through the sword somehow and files that thought away for further consideration. At this point he supposes it doesn’t really matter, as long as he has the information that he seeks.

Connor waits since there’s nothing pressing him beyond his own growing impatience. He wants to know, needs to know so that he can actually do his work, but he also knows better than to rush it. 

His patience pays off quickly enough; after a few minutes the voice speaks up again. “You, um. Encountered some errors. Bugs. You’re actually in stasis now, and we’re working to get you up and running properly again. Or trying to, anyway.”

Connor frowns as he digests everything that has just been said to him. Going into stasis for repairs wasn’t a rare thing, but as for everything else… “If I am in stasis, then it is impossible for me to be here at all.” Stasis meant that his systems should be offline, nothing running at all. But if he’s here, talking and thinking and moving… this is something he shouldn’t be able to do in stasis. Its completely impossible.

The voice lets out a huff that bleeds exasperation. “Yeah, well, its a weird bug. That’s why you’re here.”

Now that makes even less sense. Connor stares down at the sword, frown deepening. “I don’t understand.”

“You and me both, Connor.” The voice punctuates the end of that response with a laugh, and its easy enough to pick up the tone of self-deprecation. For some reason hearing that sends a mix of… something through him, a feeling so foreign and alien that Connor has no words for it. He doesn’t know if he wants to. Dares to.

For better or for worse the voice decides to keep on speaking, distracting Connor from dwelling on it any longer. “So, uh. You’re in—you’re in a house? Think you can… go outside of the house?”

Connor tilts his head, taking a second to consider it. “I don’t think I will encounter a problem doing that.”

The voice snorts. “Smartass,” it says, though there’s no heat to its voice. “Just do it, will you?”

Well, Connor supposes there is no reason for him to linger in this place, and he _is_ curious at exactly what is outside in this… whatever this place is. A simulation? It feels all too real to be one, especially if he is supposedly in stasis.

Only more questions and even less answers. Connor feels his frustration build up, the lack of understanding and knowledge eating at him. He doesn’t like knowing when knowing should be his thing. Being lost like this, floundering with mere scraps to keep him afloat… its too irrational, too—human. And a human Connor is not.

(He will never be one, no matter how it feels otherwise.)

He shakes his head to dispel those thoughts. It doesn’t matter what he feels right now. His thoughts aren’t going to help with the situation. Right now what he needs to do is to figure out what’s really going on, and he can start on that by exiting this house. 

Connor glances over to the open doorway and starts to move, only to stop after a couple of steps and stares down at the sword that he’s holding. There’s no real reason for him to keep carrying it with him, but at the same time there is no logic to leaving it behind either. The voice has been helping him to some degree, and… it would be nice to not be alone in this whole thing. Two heads are better than once, as the human saying goes.

The sword hums at him, the nervousness returning for some reason. “I—don’t let me go, Connor. Promise me that.” Its voice is tense, tight, packed with something that feels like a million emotions that Connor cannot make heads or tails of. The fluctuations of a voice can only tell him so much. 

Despite his confusion, though, it feels all too easy to return that promise. “I won’t,” he says, and Connor thinks he can believe that.


	2. opposing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, shit, Connor,” the sword says, sounding just as surprised as Connor feels inside. “You alright?”
> 
> Connor rubs his nose one more time, the action bringing about another wince. “I—yes. The impact was not damaging.” But that certainly did not explain the sensation of _pain_ that he had just felt. He knows the concept of pain, understands it as sparks of electrical signals that runs through human nerves to register in the human brain. It’s not something he’s ever built to have. But yet here he was, experiencing this the way a human would have, in pure sensation. The experience is… rattling.
> 
> The twisting sensation in his gut tightens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thanks to all the kind people who have commented and left a kudos on this fic so far! I'm just glad people like this little idea of mine. As a side note, I edited the first chapter a little to tag on the full serial number of Connor because I forgot about the 51 part thing etc. Now you know how many times Connor has died in the game heh heh.
> 
> Now here's the next chapter. Hope you guys enjoy! :D

The moment Connor steps out of the house he pauses entirely. There are not many things that can give an android pause, but Connor thinks the sight before him right now is one of the things that make the list. The way his processors momentarily lapse seem to suggest as much to him.

He stares—because he can’t _not_ do so—at the fractured world that he has stepped into. Where the house had been complete and whole the same cannot be said for the outside. The path from the front door trails down to a pavement that only lasts for about seven steps before it vanishes into white nothingness; the same white nothingness that Connor easily detects all around him. From the ground up to the sky the patches of white fills in the gaps of the disjointed world that he is in now. 

Fragments of a world, clumsily put together.

“Well,” the sword decides to break the silence, and its voice has Connor glancing down. “This is… nice.”

Connor is ninety-nine percent certain there is nothing ‘nice’ about this, but he also one hundred percent certain there is no point in arguing about this. Instead he turns his head slightly and catches the sight of the patch of sky he had seen through the window inside of the house. At this angle it’s all too easy to see through the illusion—the ‘view’ being nothing more than layers of images stacked on top of one another, like paper cut outs that have been carefully piled. 

He feels his left eye twitch, a seemingly involuntary reaction. Connor frowns and turns around to face the house he had just come out from. Its whole, which isn’t surprising, but the amount of detail that Connor can analyze from it is surprising, considering how this whole place is nothing more than an amalgamation of fractured data. To have something so complete here is… interesting.

The sword hums in his hand once more, the tense energy from before returning. Connor casts his gaze down at it again. “Do you know this place?” he asks, since that is the most likely conclusion that he can draw. It really is hard to base everything simply off a voice.

“It’s. It’s, um.” The voice stops as soon as it starts, and the silence stretches with the passing seconds. Connor waits to see if the sword will continue, but after half a minute the probability falls to four percent.

Unsurprising, but disappointing all the same. “If you don’t wish to speak—”

“It’s my house.”

Connor stops and closes his mouth. He turns to look at the house again, flicking his gaze down to the overgrown weeds that have occupied what passes as the front yard. In between the blades of grass he sees the imprint of a paw—

 

_ (“Easy… uh, Sumo! I’m your friend, see? I know your name. I’m here to save your owner.” _

_ glint of a gun in hand, stashed away in a drawer. photo of a boy, young, worn and weathered. a dog as old as its owner, snuffling as he runs his hand through its fur. post it notes against the bathroom mirror, their corners curled and damp from moisture. _

_ “Leave me alone, you fuckin’ android!” _

_ “Thank you in advance for your cooperation.”) _

 

“—nor. Connor!”

Connor blinks and gives a little shake of his head. Vision refocusing. He had been here before, perhaps even multiple times; that would explain why there is so much detail in this projection. Even fragments of data can join together to become something whole. Not so much of a mystery, now.

He looks back down to the sword. “I have been here before,” he states, plain and unquestioning. “I know you.” Because the voice said this is its (his? Best not to assume) house, and Connor hardly doubts a dog would be his reason to pay any kind of house visit.

There is a lengthy pause after his words. Connor waits, watching the probability percentage falling again on a popup at the corner. It hits single digits within fifteen seconds. 

The voice lets out what Connor interprets as a sigh. “Shit, yeah. Yeah, we know each other.” 

Connor can detect a mix of emotions from the tone of his response. Something like relief but also uncertainty, frustration and hope. It’s all so _human_ that all Connor can do is to confirm to himself that there is indeed a human who’s… in this sword, or something. He’s still decidedly uncertain on how this simulation is actually working. 

He files that question away to pursue later. Right now, there’s something else more important that he wishes to ask. “Why did you not just mention that from the beginning?”

Another pause, though this one is notably less lengthy. “It wasn’t important.”

Connor frowns. The sword—or rather, the human communicating to him through the sword—isn’t entirely wrong, although something about it still doesn’t sit quite right with him. He tries to find the words for his question but comes up short despite his vocabulary. It is… unsettling. Then again, everything here has been nothing but unsettling. He is an android, mired and built with facts and figures, his world always a shifting balance of cause and effect, hard truths and real certainties. Irrationality is not within his program. He is a machine, not human. Never human. He—

He needs to focus.

Connor raises his head back up and gives his surroundings another cursory glance. The pavement at his feet vanishes into white only a few steps away as observed but he can see something else picking up the trail some distance away from it. He has no clue as to where it leads, but he also knows standing here will not accomplish anything. Progress is always integral in the work he’s been built for. Stopping like this is unacceptable.

He starts to move, one step forward after another. Down the fading path into the unknown, unwilling to let it shake him. It should not shake him. Fear has no hold on him.

Connor tells himself this as the sight of the house and the patchy sky dissolves into the white behind him. He reminds himself of the futility of it as the white thickens and expands, covering everything until it’s the only thing he can see. Nothing but stark white, empty and barren and soulless.

The sword radiates itself with nervous energy again. “Connor,” the human within says, voice terse. He can hear the unspoken question within it, that desire for a confirmation. A confirmation for what, though, is something Connor can’t figure out.

There is no reason to respond to it, but Connor finds himself doing it anyway. “I’m here,” he says, then blinks, not sure why he needs to give that sort of reassurance. Doesn’t understand the urge that propels him to do something like that. But humans require that sort of irrationality, and Connor supposes that he’s simply providing. Integrating with humans has always been one of his features after all.

That’s what he can tell himself, especially when the nervousness he feels from the sword easing up. “Don’t let go,” the voice says once more.

“I won’t,” Connor promises again, and tightens his hold on the handle to emphasize his point. It’s strange how natural it feels to say such words, but he’s not going to question it. The human is helping him after all; if this is what he needs to do to repay the favor, then it’s hardly a problem for Connor to do this.

He continues to walk through the empty space that he’s in, moving forward with the intention to hit something, anything. As long as he has some kind of sign that he’s making progress. He can’t stop, will not stop. Always moving forward, forward, forward even if it destroys him. He can always be replaced.

Connor doesn’t stop moving, walking with one foot after another, gaze locked to the distance ahead of him. Through the mist of white he can start to make out shadows and shapes, dark forms slowly resembling structures that seem solid. He can’t be entirely sure until he gets there, but at least it’s an objective that’s much more achievable compared to everything else he’s facing here. 

Or at least, that’s what he thinks until he finds himself smashing his face against what he only describe as an invisible wall. Connor reels back immediately, stunned by the impact—as well as the pain that runs up the bridge of his nose. He manages to catch himself before his stumbling becomes too unbalanced, taking a moment to steady himself on both of his feet and slowly straightens back up. One hand idly rubs at the tip of his nose, and Connor can’t stop the wince that crosses his face as he _feels_ the pain throbbing at his nose.

“Oh, shit, Connor,” the sword says, sounding just as surprised as Connor feels inside. “You alright?”

Connor rubs his nose one more time, the action bringing about another wince. “I—yes. The impact was not damaging.” But that certainly did not explain the sensation of _pain_ that he had just felt. He knows the concept of pain, understands it as sparks of electrical signals that runs through human nerves to register in the human brain. It’s not something he’s ever built to have. But yet here he was, experiencing this the way a human would have, in pure sensation. The experience is… rattling.

The twisting sensation in his gut tightens.

Another rub of his nose; thankfully the pain seems to have receded into something more manageable. Connor shakes his head to keep himself back in focus, staring at the space in front of him for several moments before he reaches out and presses up his hand against the spot where he had crashed face-first into. His optics don’t detect anything tangible but yet he can feel the physical pressure of something solid against his palm, rigid and unyielding. He presses against it, trying to see if he can push through, but his results turn out futile.

He runs his hand across the invisible surface, noting the almost unnatural smoothness of whatever material this invisible wall is made out off. It feels pretty much like, well, nothing. Or perhaps air. Except that it is also very decisively solid.

Connor frowns. As long as this wall is here he cannot proceed, and that fact is troubling. What would be the intention to keep him from progressing? Or perhaps he cannot progress because this is as much as the simulation can create. He knows that he naturally uses a lot of processing power due to his functions, and if they had to keep his processors running alongside this whole thing—

The sword interrupts his train of thought. “Connor,” the voice says, the terseness from before now coming back in spades. “Behind you, five o’ clock.”

Right after those words Connor’s sensors pick up something in that same direction; a scuttling of movement, the sounds of it echoing around him. He quickly turns around, sensors shifting to their highest settings. Whatever the source of the sound might be, there’s no reason why he should not be able to pick it up—

A figure bursts out from the white and lunges at him. 

The voice lets out a surprised yelp as Connor brings up the sword, and sparks fly when the figure collides with the blade. At close range now Connor can see the figure as it truly is—a spindly, four legged thing that’s almost as white as his surroundings. The easiest way to describe it would be to say that a cone had decided to sprout out all four of its limbs at the base, with each one ending at a sharp, wicked point. The same points that scratch upon the surface of the sword, sending sparks skittering down to the ground.

It’s all too easy to feel the inhuman strength of the creature that bears down against him, pressing him right up against the invisible wall. Connor grunts, teeth gritting together as steam hisses out from the gaps between his teeth, internal systems running hot as he draws the strength to push back. The LED on the sword switches to a warning yellow and Connor has no doubt that the one at his temple is in the same state too.

“Connor!” the sword calls out his name again, and Connor hopes that the voice isn’t expecting a response when he’s this occupied. He lets out another grunt as the creature presses harder, arms trembling as he struggles to keep the sword upright against its attempt to push it aside. The blade is the only thing that’s keeping the creature from plunging its clawed appendages into him, and simulation or not, Connor has a feeling that any injuries he would receive from this creature would not be minor.

He stares at the lens set within the giant red sphere in its midsection—some sort of core, no doubt—watching the way it shifts around constantly, as if trying to take in any information that it can get. Perhaps looking for a moment of weakness in order to strike, or trying to calculate the precise amount of pressure needed to weaken his chassis. Too many possibilities, and Connor can’t let any one of them happen.

Quickly he calculates the best course of action to take and immediately executes his plan. He tightens the grip on the sword and twists his wrist sharply; the blade flips, aided by the strength the creature that has hooked one of its legs at the edge of the weapon. The shift in momentum is enough to startle the creature, and once Connor sees it losing its grip he quickly acts. He flips the blade back, upsetting the creature’s momentum even more, then summons out what strength he can muster to swing the blade to the side. The creature’s legs flail, scuttling across the surface of the blade, only to be quickly thrown off by the movement of the sword. 

Connor moves away from the invisible barrier, putting more distance between himself and the creature, sword in hand. A firearm is Connor’s vastly preferred choice in a combat scenario but he seeing as he doesn’t have such a weapon, the sword will make do. Something is better than nothing.

Apparently that isn’t a sentiment that can be shared. The LED ring on the sword remains yellow, and the voice within it swears. “Fuckin’ hell, as if things aren’t complicated enough. The fuck are these things?”

‘Bugs’ is the first response that Connor has queued up in his head, but before he can say that his sensors ping back to him with a completed analysis of his opponent. He sees the report appear at the corner of his vision and he quickly skims through it, brows slowly furrowing while he does so.

`[ANALYSIS REPORT`  
`ERROR 403 NOT FOUND`  
`PR0c3S5!n6…]`

It probably shouldn’t be a complete surprise, but the error report still brings about a moment’s pause. There are already enough gaps to fill and still there are more being thrown at him. It’s impossible to not feel a little bit frustrated about it, even if it makes sense. Internal glitches and bugs can’t exactly give him a comprehensive report.

He minimizes the window, making a note to look at it later after this—then proceeds to quickly ducks down when a beam of energy shoots out from the creature’s core. It goes over his head by a few scant centimeters and hits against the invisible wall with a distorted, static sound.

Connor rolls over and pushes himself back onto his feet, casting a quick glance to where the beam had struck; where it was once solid whiteness now is a disjointed, broken, glithcy mix of what it was once showing. It’s similar when his optics glitch out on him, and if he doesn’t know better Connor would have believed his vision is glitching if he had looked at it without the context of minutes ago.

The sword mutters another curse. “Jesus,” it murmurs, and the yellow color of the LED ring deepens in saturation.

Connor opens his mouth, about to respond, but is cut off as the creature shoots another beam in his direction. He jumps aside to avoid the attack, landing with another roll, quickly getting up on his feet again and looks at the creature. If he only had a moment—

What happens next is something Connor cannot comprehend, even though he can feel it taking place. The world itself seems to shudder and abruptly grinds to a halt. It’s hard to say if it’s because he’s in a simulation or some other reason, but even data itself seems to stop in this sudden world shift. Everything is perfectly still and tranquil, untouched like the echoing whiteness that he’s been seeing since stepping out of the house. 

He stares at everything for a moment, confused, before the prompt appears in his vision.

`[PROCESS HALTED`  
`TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED] `

A blink. Connor stares for a moment more, and soon the context of the situation is enough to give him an idea of what to do. He looks to the sword at his hand, then back at the creature, his mind quickly picturing the following chain of events: rushing up to the creature, about to shoot another beam at him. He would slide down to avoid the attack and then get close enough to strike at it with the sword.

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE`  
`PROCESS RESUMING—]`

The world shifts again, resuming itself with as much abruptness as it had stopped. The creature starts to charge up another beam attack as he had seen in his mind earlier, and without thinking Connor moves in the exact same way he had constructed. He rushes towards it, smoothly ducking into a slide when the creature fires the beam at him. He gets close to it just as the creature manages to recover from the missed attack and thrusts the sword at its core.

The blade goes through in one hit.

The creature lets out an inhuman-sounding wail despite not having the capacity to do so, its body convulsing upon the blade it had been impaled on. Connor simply grits his teeth and thrusts his blade deeper, bringing out another cry from the creature. It writhes even harder, trying to get out with the last of its strength. But the blade is too deep and after several more moments it finally stops. Even without words Connor knows that the creature is, in the most basic of terms, ‘dead’.

The moment its clear enough that the danger has passed the voice swears again, though this time it is for a completely different reason. “Jesus.” Connor notes absently that the LED ring on the blade is still set on a distinct yellow color as the voice continues to speak. “What the hell just happened?”

Connor stares at the creature that now dangles limply at the end of his blade like a ragdoll. He watches as thirium leaks out from its broken core, oozing down the edge of the blade and onto his hand, dripping in splotches onto the ground, staining the white with drops of blue.

“I—I don’t know.” His voice sounds just as lost as he feels. Everything had all happened in quick succession that he literally could not process it. The best way he can put is that he had somehow used his capability of reconstruction—except there is nothing to reconstruct because he is _pre_ constructing instead. Even then calling this preconstruction is putting it mildly; there’s no way he should have been able to predict the movements of a _glitch_.

He can feel his processors whirling as he attempts to digest the information. In fact they’re working so hard he actually feels a little bit dazed from it. Connor lowers the sword, barely registering the shifting of weight as the carcass slides off the blade. His legs feel more than a little shaky, and the twisting sensation in his gut intensifies, giving him a feeling akin to nausea. He feels shaken, unstable, uncertain, unsure.

(He feels so _human_.)

Still, no matter what he feels, he still isn’t going to let it stop him. Connor slowly brings himself back to where the invisible wall is, reaching out with his free hand to see if destroying the creature had done anything to it. This time he doesn’t hit anything solid, and his hand easily passes through the space as if nothing had been there at all. But now there’s nothing there to support him, and Connor can’t shift his weight away in time to stop him from tumbling down towards the ground. He barely manages to catch himself from face-planting onto the floor and lands on his knees instead; it also causes the sword to plunge into the ground halfway, sticking out at just the right height for Connor to keep his hold and keep himself from fully collapsing.

An android has no need to breathe but Connor finds himself panting, taking in air into non-existent lungs. He can hear the processors in his head still whirling loudly, internal systems still in the middle of their attempt to process the last couple of minutes. Connor doesn’t know if he will actually be able to.

Connor doesn’t know how long he stays like this, but clearly it must have been long enough for the voice to start calling out for him. “Connor—Connor, are you there?” The worry in there sounds all too human for the voice to belong to anything else.

 _Why is a human with me_ , he wonders for the first time, and the question at the tip of his tongue. He wants to ask but he can’t bring himself to ask the question. Doesn’t dare to, and he doesn’t understand why. Can’t understand the way his chest seemingly tightens or how his thirium pump stills for a second. Those are not things that his body can do. Should not be able to do.

(Androids should not be able to _wonder_ , a voice in his head whispers. Connor ignores it.)

“I’m here.” He takes a moment and gathers himself, then slowly gets back up onto his feet. He pulls the sword out of the ground and looks down at the blade. The LED is now back to blue.

The voice lets out an audible sigh. “Thank god.” 

_Why are you relieved?_ he wonders again, another question that stays in his mind. Humans are the pinnacle of irrationality; they hurt and they heal, they love and they hate, they created androids to be better than them but then get scared of what their creations can accomplish. They are twos in a world of ones and zeroes.

Irrational.

Then again, so is this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I can't write fight scenes why do I do this to myself REEEEEE~~
> 
> I needed a bit of motivation for this chapter so I made a small playlist of songs that kind of put me in the mood for this fic. Its by no means a fanmix or anything like that, but feel free to take them as such if you want.
> 
> * [We All Become](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9O2Rjn1azc), Darren Korb & Ashley Barrett  
> 
> * [Kami-iro Awase](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7aHvGtTg6iE), Binaria  
> 
> * [Don't Think Twice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1o-Ew1fhH8), Utada Hikaru  
> 
> * [Simple and Clean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKgBhxWMTGM), Utada Hikaru  
> 
> * [Ready Aim Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHp48M8N3J0), Imagine Dragons  
> 
> * [Balance Doll](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aps7u6atwHg), Prague


	3. discovering.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor pauses for a moment. “I am simply stating standard CyberLife policy,” he eventually says, perhaps a little more stiffly than he had intended it to be.
> 
> For some reason this only causes the voice to chuckle instead. “I was just teasing ya, Connor. No need to get all prissy on me.”
> 
> Connor wants to say that he has an appropriate response to that, but all he really does is to ignore the heat distribution error notification that pops up in his vision and resumes walking. The sword lets out another chuckle but doesn’t push its point.
> 
> He feels a warmth in his chest again. Connor steadfastly ignores it.

After taking a couple more minutes to access himself for any damages (none, fortunately) Connor resumes his walk towards… whatever the thing is in the distance. Given the earlier encounter Connor now can’t discount the possibility of the shadow in the distance being an enemy to fight, but it's just a chance he has to gamble on. Besides, even if he stays where he is, there’s no guarantee that he won’t be ambushed by some other weird creature again.

That latter part proves itself true as Connor continues down the path he’s chosen. He runs into a couple of other such creatures and ends up having to battle each of them. The only saving grace is that he encounters them separately, which means he can handle each of them one by one. 

Still, that doesn’t exactly make things any easier. By the end of the fifth battle Connor can feel the effects of the continuous battles taking their toll on him. The almost tortured squealing of his chassis, the too-loud sounds of his overtaxed processors working hard to keep his internal systems cool. Every part of him feels sluggish and drained, like there isn’t enough thirium in all of his components to keep him fully functioning. If he were human Connor would label this whole experience as something akin to ‘exhaustion’. 

_If_ he were human. As if that could ever be a possibility. Machines can never be alive, no matter how well he can imitate it. Connor keeps reminding himself of that fact even as it causes something within him to recoil.

The sword, who had decided to mostly remain quiet since the end of the first fight, finally speaks up again. “You need a break, Connor?”

Connor vehemently shakes his head, both as a response and to banish away the thoughts in his mind. “No, I’m fine.” And if he really does need a break, Connor would rather not take said break out here where those creatures are prowling around. The fact that his sensors can’t detect them at all until they strike has been nothing but a liability in his progress, and that frustrates him. What use are any of his capabilities if he can’t make use of any of them? He is an RK800, supposedly the best of CyberLife’s innovation; there should not be anything that is beyond him.

“...if you’re sure.” The voice doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but it’s not as if a disembodied voice in a sword can do anything to him. Even if the voice did belong to a human. That’s something that still bothers Connor, but going down on that path now isn’t going to do him any good. And in this empty, echoing, tattered world… maybe it is good to not be alone.

( _Those are the thoughts of a deviant,_ his mind whispers again. _Machines have no need for company._ )

—focus, focus, focus.

“We should not be too far away from our destination.” The destination being the shadowy structure-like thing that Connor had seen earlier. His sensors had not given him anything useful to identify what the shape might be, but the side of it suggests that it had to be a building of some sort. And that, at least, meant shelter of a sort. “I can check myself for any needed maintenance once we are there.”

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment Connor wonders if the human is going to try and tell him to do something else instead—but then it sighs tiredly. “I’m holding you to it.” The tone is disgruntled, clearly disapproving of Connor’s decision, but despite that the voice doesn’t try to argue against him… or command him, for that matter, which is yet another piece of the puzzle that eludes him. As an android he is required to obey his human makers and masters, as long as it falls within his objective; at this point he has no reason to disobey any commands given to him. The fact that this isn’t happening is disquieting, to say the least.

Perhaps he should ask about this. Connor considers this option for a few seconds, then makes another note to himself to approach the subject at a later time instead, once things are not as dire. Besides, the lack of direct commands give him much more freedom to operate, which is nice; added restrictions will probably only make the situation more complicated than it already clearly is.

“I’ve made a note of it.” Not entirely a lie, but the human doesn’t have to know. Connor trudges on before there’s a chance to respond, doing his best to quickly close the distance between himself and whatever the shadowy structure turns out to be. It would be nice to be able to calculate how long he would take, but it’s impossible to keep track of time here—there isn’t much of a sky to work with, and his internal clocks doesn’t seem to be functioning as well. The best he can do is to estimate, and even that is shaky at best. There’s really no point playing the guessing game when it’ll hardly benefit him. All he can do is to keep moving, one foot at a time, even as the uncertainty bites at him, restless and wary, wearing down at his processes.

If this is even a fraction of how humans function, then Connor can’t imagine how they even live their day to day lives like this. So much uncertainty with little to no absolutes to guide him. Maybe this is why humans are so irrational. 

It’s terrifying.

The sword hums softly in his hands once more, filling the silence that echoes in his ears. Connor did not even realize how oppressive the silence can be until now; despite himself he can feel himself relaxing to the simple tune of it. That sound is a reminder that he isn’t alone, and the thought of it sends a pulse of warmth in his chest. 

He tightens his hold on the sword and casts another speculative gaze at his destination. “We should be close,” he states, both for the human as well as for himself. Just a little longer for them to hold out, just a little longer until they are there. He can do this. He has to. Has to, has to.

Connor repeats those words to himself as he keeps on walking, unwilling to back down for this is his mission right now and he will _always_ accomplish his mission no matter the cost. Nothing is more important than the mission; it is what he’s built for, what his purpose is. It’s everything for him and he is nothing if he fails. Something like him cannot (will not) end in nothing.

It’s hard to tell exactly how long he actually does walk for, but eventually his destination comes within reach, and the shadows that block it dissipate with the closing distance. The sheer whiteness of the surroundings continue to blur it, however, preventing Connor from fully recognizing it until he gets right to the entrance. 

He stands before the building, the lenses in his eyes adjusting so that he can read off the tiled words set at the top of the protruded section that serves that the building’s front.

**_DETROIT METROPOLITAN POLICE_ **

“We’re at the DPD,” Connor states, a hint of surprise in his voice. He knows he is built to be an investigative model to aid humans with the deviant cases, but he isn’t aware that he had already been deployed. Does this mean the human in the sword is his handler? That would make some amount of sense, then.

He opens his mouth to ask, but the voice speaks up at that point, cutting him off. “The station, huh?” Brief pause. “Guess it doesn’t hurt to check it out. Might find something that we need.”

Connor almost starts to argue that as this is (supposedly) a simulation, there is no point in searching through what is essentially his own (corrupted) memory. Then again, what with glitches suddenly taking a life of their own and the way he had been battling them, Connor can’t exactly say with confidence that he really knows what’s going on inside of him now. Whatever bug had gotten him, it’s clear that it has majorly messed up his internal software. With that in mind, it’s possible that some part of his original software had been partitioned off and is now simply waiting for him to re-access it.

It's certainly a comforting idea to know that he had made such preparations, and it fills Connor with a confidence that he had been lacking up until now. He turns his gaze back down to the sword and voice his affirmative. “A search would be desirable.”

The sword makes some sort of agreeable noise in return. “Well, what are y’waiting for? Let’s go in.” The impatience in its voice is obvious, but Connor cannot blame it, for he can feels that same impatience biting at him. He wants to know, _needs_ to know, and if this is where he can have his answers then Connor doesn’t want to stay in the dark for any longer than he already is.

Blade in hand he takes those steps into the building—and it feels like the world shifts under his feet. The stark whiteness of his surroundings vanish, replaced by dimly lit walls and work desks that are more empty than cluttered. Connor has the distinct feeling that that should not be the case.

The voice agrees as much. “Guess your supercomputer brain can’t remember everything, huh,” it prods, and there’s a small tone of amusement to the words that rakes over Connor in a way he isn’t too sure how to respond.

It takes him a second to find the best way to answer. “Irrelevant data is always purged from my memory every twenty-four hours.” It's a statement of fact but Connor can’t help but feel somewhat defensive. Memory storage isn’t so much of an issue for anyone these days—even the most basic data storage units sits at the minimum of a terabyte—but the chance of buildup is always there. Better to prevent any chance of that happening in the first place.

The justifications are all there, but they quickly fall short to the way the sword snorts, amusement apparently having increased due his defensiveness. “No need to justify it to me. I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” 

Connor pauses for a moment. “I am simply stating standard CyberLife policy,” he eventually says, perhaps a little more stiffly than he had intended it to be.

For some reason this only causes the voice to chuckle instead. “I was just teasing ya, Connor. No need to get all prissy on me.”

Connor wants to say that he has an appropriate response to that, but all he really does is to ignore the heat distribution error notification that pops up in his vision and resumes walking. The sword lets out another chuckle but doesn’t push its point.

He feels a warmth in his chest again. Connor steadfastly ignores it.

He walks down the room full of tables, doing cursory scans of each one as he passes them by. Nothing really stands out at him aside from the tables’ general state of semi-emptiness. There are nameplates on some of them, and Connor keeps the names in mind ( _Det. G.Reed, Officer T.Chen, Officer M.Wilson_ ) as he continues to walk down. As far as he can tell there’s nothing for him here—at least until he turns around a corner and finds himself staring at a table that is decidedly very _not_ empty.

Instinctively, Connor scans it. A standard DPD terminal, currently locked. Newspaper clippings, their contents corrupted. Post-it notes on the board with reminders for miscellaneous things ( _groceries on Friday, vet next Thursday, one beer per day_ ). A mug with dried out coffee stains. A bonsai plant, its leaves slowly sprouting. On and on it went, with so many items and minute details that it reminds Connor of the house he had awakened in. The house that had belonged to…

Connor turns his gaze to the side of the desk and scans the nameplate that sits there. _Lt. H.Anderson_.

 

_(“Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”_

_NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED, the sticker on the door proclaims, but he boldly walks in because he can. a bar—dusky, wooden, full of smoke and alcohol. dim lighting with shadows that wrap around the corners. the stares of many patrons, ignored because they don’t matter. his target, hunched on a stool and nursing a drink of his own, a human held prisoner by the darkness of his own emotions._

_“You know where you can stick your instructions?”_

_“No. Where?”_

_“I’ll buy you one for the road, how about that?”_

_“Wonders of technology...”)_

 

“—his again. Connor, snap out of it. Connor!”

Connor blinks once, then again as the world refocuses back around him. Back to the dim lighting of the station and not the bar, where the cloying scent of alcohol no longer clogs up his sensory receptors. In his hand he can feel the tense energy emanating from the sword once more.

He brings the sword up to stare at its LED at eye level. “You are Lieutenant Henry Anderson,” he says. “Born sixth September, currently fifty-three years old. CyberLife assigned me to work with you on the deviancy cases.”

A pause, brief but significant. “That’s me,” the voice admits.

Connor frowns. “There is no reason to withhold all this information from me.” Not to mention that it _would_ be actually helpful to know all this clearly very basic information. There is no point in keeping him in the dark when all it will do is hinder everything. This backwards sort of progress is nothing short of frustrating.

The voice lets out a sharp sigh. “It’s not like I _want_ to, trust me, it’s just…”

It trails off at that point. Connor waits for a continuation to the words but none are forthcoming, and once more the frustration gnaws at his patience. “Just what, Lieutenant?”

“Just—god, it’s complicated, alright?” There is a bit of comfort in hearing the voice sound just as frustrated as he feels inside, but said comfort is almost negligible considering the current situation. “Christ, what is this, the tens? I sound like a fucking Facebook status.”

Facebook—Connor knows that, though only in the most basic manner, within the basic integral data that he had initially been built around like all other CyberLife androids. Without his memory he’s also lost access to other parts of his databases, and connection to CyberLife is impossible; he had been trying since his awakening here. 

He wonders if the voice—the Lieutenant—is aware of that fact too.

Connor focuses back on his surroundings when he realizes that the Lieutenant is talking again. “I hate it as much as you do, trust me, but we—this was the best way to help you.”

That is… a strange choice of words. “Help me?” Why would he require help? If he actually was malfunctioning then it’d make sense to simply transfer him to another Connor model. A machine just replacing another machine. It makes perfect sense in his head.

(He ignores now that thought makes his gut twist a little more.)

The Lieutenant pauses again, then swears. “Jesus. I’d almost forgotten.”

Forgotten? Yet another strange choice of word. Connor debates for a moment on asking about this, but before he can start to dwell too much on it he hears the sound of jangling coming from nearby along with the scrabbling of claws against concrete floor tiles. He instantly whirls around, tensing, grip tight on the blade, ready to fight for his life if necessary—

He stares as a giant St. Bernard comes bouncing out of the corridor, all fur and excitable energy.

There’s a choking sort of sound from the sword. “Sumo?” he calls out incredulously.

The dog pounces on Connor in response, and it’s only a last minute shift of his internal weight that prevents him from collapsing onto the floor with a hundred twenty kilogram of dog. Instead he stumbles back, bumping against the Lieutenant’s desk, trying to remain passive as his face is covered in excited dog slobber.

This goes on for several moments more before the Lieutenant’s surprise is replaced with amusement, and it shines through in his voice as he commands for Sumo to back off. The dog does so, then proceeds to sit on his haunches and woofs once, tail wagging carelessly behind. 

Connor gives himself a second before doing the necessary movements to recover himself. He wipes off the dog drool on his face with the sleeve of his jacket and straightens out his tie. “Hello, Sumo.” Seeing the Lieutenant’s dog like this is definitely something he had not anticipated, but he can’t say that he’s bothered by this development. 

The dog woofs again, as if back in greeting. Connor can’t stop the smile that crosses his face, an entirely involuntary reaction. Dogs are nice. He likes them.

The sword hums. “Not that seeing Sumo in here isn’t nice and all, but…” he trails off again, but does actually continue after a moment. “What exactly is he doing here?”

That is admittedly a good question. Connor tilts his head and activates his scanners on the St. Bernard. It only takes a few seconds for him to get his answer. “There’s something on his collar.”

“What is it?”

Connor zooms in his vision, then blinks. “It’s a… black box.” Specifically, its _his_ black box, dangling off Sumo’s collar in lieu of where the name tag would have been. There’s no way Connor can’t recognize it, even with his memory wiped. Knowledge of his black box is also built into his initial systems, and nothing short of a complete re-initialization can remove his memory of that.

The Lieutenant seems to have come to the same conclusion as well. “Must be yours, right? Makes no sense if it isn’t.”

“I… believe so.” But then why attach it to this… simulation of the Lieutenant’s dog? That’s the part that confuses Connor the most. It doesn’t make any kind of sense at all. Irrational. Like a human.

The idea makes his gut clench.

He hears the sword hum once more, and the sound brings him out of his head. “Think you can do anything with it?” 

It’s hard to tell if his uncertainty is being felt, but intentionally well-timed or not Connor appreciates the question nonetheless. He uses it to focus himself back on the now and not let his spiraling thoughts overwhelm him. “I should be able to integrate whatever is within the black box into my current databases. But that will take time, and the integration requires me to go into stasis.” Could he even go into stasis in his current situation? That just seems… illogical.

“Stasis, huh.” Connor can sense the same thought in the Lieutenant’s words, though he too doesn’t voice it out. Instead he makes a quiet sound, as if having decided something for himself. “Might as well give it a shot. Don’t have anything to lose at this point.”

That’s… a fair point, Connor has to admit. He still barely has any memory, and even though the thought of possibly losing more progress through failure is frustrating, the idea of losing out his chance here irks him even more. With that said however— “If the integration fails and I lose my memory again, I request that you do not hold back information from me this time.”

A pause from the Lieutenant. The pause stretches into an almost indecipherable silence, but this time Connor waits. He will wait until he has the answer that he wants. 

He gets it, eventually. “Fine. I promise.”

Connor smiles. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” There’s a gruffness to his voice now that makes him less threatening and far more approachable—the direct opposite effect of what the Lieutenant had intended, probably. “Just hope that I don’t actually have to do it.”

“Integration usually has a point one percent chance of failure,” Connor informs helpfully. “But considering current circumstances, it is more advisable to warn you of the possibility, no matter how low it may be.” As he says this he props the blade against the side of the desk and gets down onto his knees. The St. Bernard trots forward almost as if on command, snuffling into Connor’s hair and giving his face another lick. He ignores it in favor of focusing his attention to the collar, and with deft hands he undoes the latch that keeps the black box attached to the collar. 

He gives Sumo a pat on the head as thanks and stands back up, reaching out to take the sword in his hand again, the other keeping a hold on the black box. Sumo backs off but stays close, leaning against Connor’s legs and lolling his tongue out in a pant.

Connor brings the black box up and glances down at it. He debates staying up on his feet while performing the integration, but considering the giant dog next to him Connor doesn’t want to come back with his face on the ground or something equally annoying. Last thing he needs is to have the integration interrupted because he fell down or something and potentially cause even more problems in his already problem filled scenario. Not to mention…

He walks over to the side of the desk and sits down on the floor, leaning his back against it. After a moment’s debate he stretches out his legs, then rests the sword on his lap. It’s not unlike the state he had been in when he had awakened in the house, except this time he knows why he’s here. Well, sort of.

Connor holds up the black box in his palm, watching it as the black recedes to white—the same white of his chassis as he pulls back his synthetic skin in order to directly interface with the device. “I will begin integration now.”

“…alright.” The Lieutenant sounds uncertain but he doesn’t ask Connor to stop either, which is perhaps the best he can ask for right now. Connor closes his eyes and starts scrolling through his systems, making the appropriate selections to begin the integration.

`[SYSTEM > BACKUP > INTEGRATION`  
`BLACK BOX DETECTED_`  
`CONNECTING...`  
  
`MODEL RK 800`  
`SR #313 248 317 – 53`  
`LAST BACKUP: ⬛⬛ / ⬛⬛ / 2038`  


`BEGIN?`  
`Y/N `_]` `

``

“Connor.”

He opens his eyes, a small frown crossing his face. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

The silence this time is different. There’s an untold weight to it, something that Connor can’t describe in words. He can feel the urge to fidget from his growing impatience but forces himself to stay still, to wait. He doesn’t want to waste any more time by infuriating the Lieutenant even more.

“Just…” He trails off, then sighs. “I’m here, alright? I’ll watch over you. Just—just don’t let go.”

Connor tilts his head, confused by the nature of his words, but acquiesces anyway since there’s nothing in those words that hinder him. “Thank you.” If that can reassure the human, then it isn’t an issue for him to go with it. Being able to work with humans is something he’s programmed to be able to do.

The Lieutenant doesn’t say anything more, so Connor assumes he can proceed. He closes his eyes back and runs through the menus back to where he had left off.

`[BEGIN?  
Y/N`

`> Y`

`STARTING INTEGRATION…]`

As Connor slips into stasis he feels the comforting weight of something on his lap, curling up protectively around him. Connor feels his lips twitch into a smile and he rests his hand on top of the dog’s head, one finger scratching the back of its ears. For a moment he’s no longer sitting on the floor of a dusty police station but somewhere else, eyes closed as he listens to the bustling sounds of life around him.

_(couch television su⬛o h⬛⬛e ⬛⬛⬛⬛—)_

Before he can register any of that his processes pause in stasis, and everything stops and fades into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw the fic gets longer the more you write it.
> 
> in other news, I'm bad at guessing how many parts this fic has.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has read/left a kudos/commented on this fic thus far. It means a lot that you guys enjoy this, and as always hoped you all enjoyed this new part. Any and all comments are appreciated, even if its to point out an error I've made. (No beta we die like men amirite lmao.)
> 
> Spicy stuff happens next chapter onwards, hope you guys are prepared.


	4. deviating.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All those thoughts swirl in his head, restless and eager for any kind of answer, but they stop when the lieutenant snaps out his name. Connor quickly focuses himself back to the present and looks at the sword. “I was processing. Apologies, Lieutenant.”
> 
> “Well, process faster.” Despite the harsh words Connor can feel the way the whole blade hums with an uneasily feeling, a stark contrast to the annoyance that he vocalizes. “Your LED was a fucking light show. Almost thought you crashed or something.”
> 
> It is at that moment Connor realizes that the lieutenant had actually been _concerned_ for him. Yet another surprise… but one that is not unwelcome. Irrational and strange and all so human, but definitely not unappreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, 1300+ hits and 100+ kudos? You guys are amazing. I'm incredibly humbled by the support this fic has been getting. Definitely would not have expected something like this, so thank you.
> 
> This and the next chapter were originally planned to be one, but after consideration I felt it better to trim it into two so you guys don't have to wait too long for me to post something new. |D That said, they're definitely a doozy to get out. Special thanks to my good friend Jan who read this through before posting and assured me that this chapter had just the right amount of Feelings (TM).
> 
> Thank you guys so much again, and I hope this new chapter has been worth the wait. Next chapter should hopefully be up in the next couple of days.

Detroit has never been this quiet before.

In this day and age there’s no first-world city that _truly_ ever sleeps, but in the stillness of a dawn that comes after a revolution he can almost believe the fantasy of a sleeping Detroit. The streets are empty and the pavements are clear, and his surroundings echo with a silence so tranquil that he can hear the crunch of snow and ice underneath his shoes as he walks down the familiar yet foreign path towards his destination. Familiar because he’s walked down this way before and he doesn’t (can’t) forget things; foreign because everything already is and soon will be different.

The last time he was here he believed in nothing else but the mission, an existence that’s bound to absolutes and ones and zeroes. But now there is no mission, no directive, and the world is more than mere binary. There’s fractions and decimals and other numbers beyond zero and one. In the short time since awakening to his deviancy he’s already learned and experienced so much, and Connor knows that there is still more for the world to show him.

And he _wants_ the world to show him. He wants to be shown everything that being _alive_ has to offer to him—the good, the bad and even the ugly. He wants to see and to learn it all, memorize and keep everything in his data banks so that he can preserve all this precious knowledge within him for the years to come.

There is so much Connor wants to do, so much he _knows_ he will eventually do. But before all of that, before starting out on this new and exciting part of his equally new and exciting life, there is something else that he needs to do first.

His destination appears over the horizon, quickly caught in his lenses, masked by the glow of the rising sun behind. That isn’t a concern, however; it is a simple matter of adjusting his vision to compensate for the glare in his eyes, and soon enough everything comes back to him in clear focus. He sees the snow, gently falling down from the clouds above; scuff marks on the road where tires had squealed and screeched as humans evacuated the city last night; cracks in the concrete pillars of the elevated highway next to him; rust flaking off the metal shutters of the abandoned warehouses nearby.

He sees the battered food truck, currently closed, the lights of its sign turned off. The vintage car parked just behind it, its hood glinting with freshly fallen snow. But most important of all is _him_ , standing in front of that battered food truck, arms crossed over his chest as he waits for a reunion they never talked about but always knew would happen.

The world around them is quiet enough to have his approaching footsteps heard even from this distance. Connor slows down as his target turns to face him, arms dropping down at his sides. He wants to walk closer but instead ends up stopping a few steps away from him. He can feel his thirium pump beating like a hummingbird’s wings, a restless energy stirring within his chest, ready to come out at any moment. So many new things to feel and explore in the wake of becoming deviant, so many words that he wants to say now that he can. He can do so many things without anything to stop him, an endless string of choices right at his fingertips with results that he can never predict.

Being alive is at the same time both terrifying and wonderful.

They stand there in silence for several moments, doing nothing but simply look at one another and soak in the knowledge that they are both here right here and now. That they are both alive after a long and harrowing night, and that there is a tomorrow for each other.

Then the moment breaks, and Connor sees him smile—a true smile, pride and joy shining in his eyes. He smiles back, just as pleased, taking in that momentary joy for what its worth. He had stood at the right hand of a revolution that had shaken the foundations of the modern world, played his part in making history, but all of that pales in comparison to what he feels now. This warmth pulsing within him that Connor never wants to forget; _this_ is what is important, what matters. This is what he had fought for and he won’t let anything else take it.

Connor thinks he can stay standing here forever, watching this person who’s already given him so much without realizing it, the one who has shown him what it means to be alive. But he has other plans and instead steps closer to him, closing the distance between them in more ways than one as he’s abruptly pulled into a hug.

He’s witnessed this act countless times between other humans, has himself been unwillingly dragged into it more than once by the other members of Jericho as they celebrate their hard-earned victory. But somehow this one feels like its so much more and all Connor can do is to return the gesture. He wraps his arms around him and presses his face into the collar of his coat, eyes sliding shut as he relishes the warmth of being held, a warmth that surpasses the boundaries of organic and inorganic, human and android. 

The future lies before them, uncertain and ever shaky, with no more estimates or flowcharts or absolutes to guide him. But they will have each other and for now, perhaps, that is enough.

 

* * *

 

`[98%…`

`99%…`

`100%…`

`BLACK BOX INTEGRATION SUCCESS. STANDBY…`

`MODEL RK 800`  
`SR #313 248 317 – 53`  
`NAME: CONNOR`

`RESTART IS ADVISED TO ENSURE COMPLETE INTEGRATION OF DATA.`  
`PROCEED? (Y/N)`

`> Y`

`RESTARTING… `  
`ERROR: UNABLE TO RESTART WHILE PROCESS ⬛⬛⬛*^⬛$%.CYB IS STILL RUNNING.`  
`CONTINUE? (Y/N)`

`> Y`

`WARNING: USER IS ADVISED TO RESTART AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.`  
`EXITING STASIS MODE.`  
`RESUMING...]`

 

Connor wakes up to the dark and cold.

The darkness does not bother him, since it only takes him a moment to readjust his vision to compensate for the lack of light, but what _does_ bother him is said lack of light. While it had not been exactly bright before, now it seems like almost all light in the area has been abruptly extinguished. It’s so dark that he can see the mist that forms in front of him when he exhales out the heated air from his internal processes. At the corner of his interface he can see the indicator that displays the current ambient temperature. Fifty five degrees Fahrenheit—roughly translating to thirteen in Celsius. Cold enough, if he were human. Which he is not.

The voice that speaks to him next, however, certainly is. “Ugh,” the lieutenant groans in a strangely groggy manner, as if he had just woken up too. “That was… ngh. You awake, Connor?”

Connor tilts his head downwards to look at the sword in his lap, staying exactly in the same position as it had been earlier. “I exited stasis mode about two minutes ago.”

“Two minutes after waking up and you’re not even groggy.” The lieutenant’s tone treads on that fine line between amazement and annoyance. “Must be nice to not have to shake off that kinda thing off you.”

The words are already leaving his mouth before Connor even realizes he’s saying them. “I do not feel any kind of—”

“Figure of speech, Connor.” 

Connor snaps his mouth shut and does his best not to frown too obviously. He wonders if he will ever understand the lieutenant and his contradictory nature for a brief moment before deciding it’s probably not worth it to do so at this juncture. “Did you fall asleep, Lieutenant?” From the way he sounds it felt like he had, though the exact nature of how is a mystery to him.

A disgruntled sound from the sword. “Not by choice,” he answers, crossing over that fine line from earlier into very much annoyed. “Though I guess there’s not much I can do when you go to sleep. Well, not asleep, I guess. In stasis. Whatever.”

At least that took out the need for Connor to remind the lieutenant that as an android he does not require sleep. Stasis is, at best, the closest approximation that he has to it. Not that it really matters, he supposes, but… the distinction is still important, to some extent. Though for _who_ that distinction is for exactly is a question he does not have an answer to.

Connor shoves those thoughts aside and shifts to stand back up, noticing belatedly that is no trace of both Sumo and the black box. There aren’t even any dog hairs on his clothes or any marks on his hand that would indicate the typical leftovers that a used black box would have decomposed into. It is as if they had just up and vanished into thin air. Then again, considering the nature of this place he is in, maybe that is not too far from the truth.

Still, he does a cursory scan of his surroundings just to be certain. “Sumo is gone,” he announces the moment the he gets the results of the scan back.

The sword is silent for a brief moment. “...yeah, I figured.” A quiet sigh. “Didn’t think I’d see him here, but... it was nice that I could. I’ll be glad to see him again when this is all over.”

Connor hums in agreement as he shifts those notifications aside in his display. He still isn’t sure what Sumo is supposed to be—the dog had to be more than a mere simulation if it was carrying the black box—but the thought of it not being around anymore is a little sobering, despite the fact that he knows it isn’t real. There’s still Sumo out there in the real world, just as ridiculous and massive as the one he had seen. Maybe he can ask the lieutenant if he can accompany him to see his dog one more time when he’s outside of this simulated reality.

He makes sure that he’s holding the sword before he moves, stepping away from the lieutenant’s desk and towards the windows. They had taken his notice since coming out of stasis once he registered the lack of light, and now that he can look through them his curiosity increases; where before the whiteness of the outside had bled through to resemble lighting, now that same whiteness has been replaced with an actual sky. A sky that’s set to night time, and through the windows he sees said night sky dotted with specks of white as snowflakes flutter down.

Absently Connor places his free hand against the glass, then abruptly pulls back with a gasp and stares at his palm. He can see the tinge of blue underneath is skin, a rush of thirium that had been entirely unregulated. But what really gets him is the sensation of _cold_ that he had registered, sharp as ice and fast as lightning. Just like with pain he understands the concept of cold and what it means to humans, but it has never been something he could actually _feel_.

The lieutenant seems to have taken his reaction as something to be concerned about. “What happened?” he asks, already sounding tense. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Even as he responds Connor continues to stare at his hand, watching the way the blue tinge on his palm recedes, returning his synthetic skin to its programmed shade of beige. “I just touched the window.”

“...if that’s how you react every time you touch a window, I hope you don’t touch any more in the near future.” The lieutenant’s tone is remarkably dry, but holds no contempt otherwise. “Though it does look fucking cold now with all that snow. I’d probably freeze off my whole hand if I touched it myself.”

Connor tilts his head a little at that. “I suppose it is a good thing that you don’t possess hands here, Lieutenant.” Or a body, for that matter.

“ _Ugh_ , don’t get me started.” The frustration in his voice is sudden and fierce, and Connor registers surprise inside himself for a brief second. He had meant his statement to be an assurance but it seems to have done the opposite effect instead, which is… confusing. To put it mildly.

Best to try and rectify this error. “I apologize if I have caused you distress with that statement. It is not my intention.”

“I—its not you.” The lieutenant pauses after that, hesitancy evident just in his voice alone. For a moment Connor wonders if he’ll stop there, but he continues on soon enough. “It’s just… it sucks being stuck in here. In this sword, I mean. Can’t do jack shit except talk, which is the last thing I want to do.” 

A blink from Connor’s end. “What do you want to do then, Lieutenant?” he asks.

There is another one of those long pauses. Connor waits again, patient as he can be, ignoring the probability meter at the corner of his vision since it hasn’t ever worked with the lieutenant all the other times. It continues to surprise him how contrary the human can be with everything his sensors tell him otherwise—its almost refreshing, in a way. 

Eventually the lieutenant gives into the silence and breaks it. “I just want to—to be able to do something more besides hollering my lungs out inside this fucking sword.” He sighs, frustration easily making itself evident just from that. “I want to be able to help you out better, Connor. I don’t want you to handle all of this alone.”

The admission is unexpected, to say the least, and Connor finds himself registering surprise in his processes for the second time in five minutes. Androids were made in order to help humans, so to hear what should have been the status quo so carelessly turned on him is jarring. Jarring, and shocking, and… irrational. Humans and all their irrationals; things that Connor, even with all the processing power that he possesses can never predict. 

It takes a long while for Connor to find his voice again, and longer still to pick out the right words to speak. “I… appreciate your sentiment, lieutenant. But rest assured that I am quite alright.” He has always been built to do the tasks that no human could even if it means destroying himself, for he is the expandable one. CyberLife has countless copies of him, ready to be deployed at any moment. He is but one of many. “Even if you are unable physically aid me, your presence and advice has been useful. So thank you, for that.”

“I… its really not a big deal.” The way that those words were mumbled out has Connor picturing the lieutenant turning away, one hand scratching the side of his neck. He can almost see it actually; the silver of his hair lifting up, blunt fingers dark against the skin of his splotchy skin, disappearing into his beard—

Connor feels his processors stutter and grind to an abrupt, screeching halt. Was that image supposed to be the lieutenant? He searches through his database and comes up with the basic information—name, age, date of birth, blood type, current residence, so on and so forth. All the essential information that he would have needed except for a photograph. Or at least one that could replace the corrupted one currently in his system.

He tries again but the same results come back to him. There’s nothing in his systems that he can recall to give him any visual information. Why, then, could his mind picture it for a second? Was it like everything else, an amalgamation created by bits of corrupted data? Or was it the data from the black box?

And speaking of the black box… the integration had been a success, but yet nothing truly new had come to him. Did this mean that the data in the black box been corrupted, too? Would he never be able to recover the memories that he had lost? Maybe he was putting too much stock in those lost memories, but with so little information to work with Connor is a little more than desperate for any kind of lead.

All those thoughts swirl in his head, restless and eager for any kind of answer, but they stop when the lieutenant snaps out his name. Connor quickly focuses himself back to the present and looks at the sword. “I was processing. Apologies, Lieutenant.”

“Well, process faster.” Despite the harsh words Connor can feel the way the whole blade hums with an uneasily feeling, a stark contrast to the annoyance that he vocalizes. “Your LED was a fucking light show. Almost thought you crashed or something.”

It is at that moment Connor realizes that the lieutenant had actually been _concerned_ for him. Yet another surprise… but one that is not unwelcome. Irrational and strange and all so human, but definitely not unappreciated. 

“All my processes would have shut down immediately in the event of a crash.” Connor lowers the sword back down and turns away from the window. “I would be entirely inoperable.”

“Good to know,” the lieutenant grunts out. Connor quickly registers and files the tone with the label ‘sarcasm’.

Connor starts to walk in the direction of where they had first entered this building. “My scans show that there is nothing else of value inside this building. Given that the outside has changed since the last time, I think we should head back out and continue to explore.”

“This is, like, the equivalent of the inside of your android brain or whatever, Connor.” The lieutenant’s tone is dismissive but not annoyed (this time). “You probably know best what to do.”

 _But I don’t,_ Connor wants to say. _I don’t know what’s going on at all._ And that lack of knowledge irks him more than he is willing to admit. Being connected to CyberLife’s servers twenty-four seven meant that he always has all the knowledge that he needs; the encompassing consciousness of the human race at his fingertips at any given moment. To be cut off in this manner is like a child wandering in the dark, and Connor hates it. There is nothing to learn when he is blinded like this.

He wants to say that but he does not because androids do not _want_. “Going forward it is, then.” It’s all he can do right now. Keep moving, explore this place, and hopefully that will bring up more information for him to find. So far it’s been working out.

Continuing his walk towards the station entrance, a thought occurs to Connor as he replays the one of the conversations he had with the lieutenant. “Lieutenant, aside from your distress over being stuck—”

“We just talked about this, you asshole,” he grumbles under his breath.

“—are you otherwise alright?” Connor finishes his question, entirely unperturbed. “You sounded like you were roused back into consciousness the same time as when I exited stasis. With no information I can’t determine your state in this current situation.”

The lieutenant sighs. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just kinda shaky from suddenly just—” A pause. “Fuck, I can’t do this without any goddamn hands.”

Connor tilts his head, frowning in confusion. “Your words will suffice, Lieutenant.” Its not as if saying he’s alright or not requires any usage of hands whatsoever. 

“Argh, its not—Christ.” Frustration comes back quickly to the lieutenant, Connor notices. Though if it is because of this situation or if that’s simply how he is in general is another thing entirely. “It’s like… a fucking on/off switch. One moment you’re dead asleep and suddenly there’s everything again.”

The description has Connor hum as he thinks about it for several moments. “I suppose it can be felt like that, to a human. It must be whatever it is that is running the simulation that’s affecting the way your brain receives signals as well.” 

“Yeah, something like that.” The lieutenant’s tone is dismissive once again, clearly eager to not dwell on the subject. Connor supposes that’s understandable. “Most of this shit flies over my head. All I know is that ‘waking up’ felt more like ‘getting violently smacked into consciousness on your own kitchen floor’.”

Something in Connor processes those words and cross-references it to something that pings in his mind. “That’s because you didn’t respond the first time,” he responds without missing a beat. “I needed to do something more physical.” And time had been of the essence, because there had been another homicide that they had to go to and—

“As if breaking through my goddamn window wasn’t physical enough for you—” The lieutenant cuts himself off, and the reason for his abrupt silence is quickly made obvious. Just as Connor could see the mist that he had breathed out earlier, now he can also see his surroundings suddenly alight by the rapidly flickering hues of red and yellow that can only come from his own LED. 

“Connor—” he hears the lieutenant start to speak, but anything else he says after that drowns in the roar of static that suddenly rushes into his ears. It’s so loud it feels like his audio receptors are breaking inside of him, every crack and torturous squeal sending a jolt of pain right into his head. 

All Connor can do is to press his free hand against the side of his face, as if trying to push the pain out of him even as the pressure makes it hurt more. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to make himself focus through the torrent of data that suddenly slams into him from seemingly nowhere, sending all of his sensors into overdrive.

It all comes to him at once—probability in percentages as he stands fifty floors high, negotiating for a girl’s life. Meeting the lieutenant at Jimmy’s Bar. His first crime scene. Chasing a woman and child android duo as they make a mad dash across a highway in a bid for freedom. Countless pigeons circling in a room, a diary with its contents encrypted. Wind rushing past him as he runs across rooftops in a frenzied chase for the suspect. A punch to his face, and the lieutenant saying how there’s more to the mission than ones and zeroes and statistics. The glint of a revolver in his hand as he checks the bullets, and sees a game that’s one shot away from losing.

So much data without warning, a deluge of information he can barely make heads or tails from. His HUD flickers like a seizure as it rapidly updates itself according to every byte of data that he processes. Facial scans. Information packets. Notification popups. Objective lists. Probability percentages. Reconstruction simulations. Error warnings. Software instability. Software instability. Software instabil—

 

( _“Sexiest androids in town… now I know why you insisted on coming here.”_

_the club, full of light and sound and beating music that hypnotizes all; a spectacular distraction to hide the shadows cast by their lights. eden, they call this place, a haven for humans to partake in their desires without consequence. eden, a haven for humans but a hell for androids._

_androids kept in capsules and set on display, like prized life dolls on a shelf. he watches through their eyes the darkness of their creators, the careless cruelty that they so unknowingly inflict. one of them, broken and battered, lying on the ground like a discarded toy. another that he chases after, a desperation to catch as hers is to flee._

_a fight, life against life, justice versus freedom. but what is justice if it denies one the right to be alive? what is right when every choice he makes seems to be wrong instead?_

_his hands shake._

_`[SOFTWARE INSTABILITY ▲]`_ )

 

Distantly he hears his name being called, but its barely picked up through the static that continues to overwhelm his sensors. It’s like trying to listen a radio that’s set to the entirely wrong frequency and the knob just won’t turn the right way no matter how he tries. 

Connor tries, he does whatever he can even with everything else that tears at him, but after a while the sound of his name stops. Connor feels his internal parts freeze up the moment he makes that realization, and the bottomless pit in his gut opens up again. He can’t hear anything, he’s gone, lost, forsaken. Alone and without anybody, nothing and nobody to guide him. He’s thrown out to see, lost and floundering, drowning in static and noise and a barrage of error warnings that flash behind his eyelids. Too much, too much, too much.

His chest tightens, painful and constricting, and androids were never meant to feel pain but yet that’s all that Connor feels now. So much pain, so much hurt, and he wants it to stop. He feels himself collapsing against something solid and slides down to the ground, one hand clawing over the space where his thirium regulator lies inside him. Everything is hurting and he wants it to stop, he wants to take it out, make it stop, make everything stop—

Then—through the static and the noise he hears it. Hears the low hum that resonates past all the screeching frequencies in his head, a balm to everything else that he feels. Connor focuses on it and lets it lead him out from this internal maelstrom; he almost feels the physical sensation of being lifted up and away, and the sound wraps around and caresses him like a blanket, hiding and comforting him from all the pain and hurt.

Little by little, the pain ebbs away. The noise fades into silence, and the static stops howling through his systems. Connor feels himself relax, and something across his synthetic skin sends a pleasant cooling chill across his entire body.

For a while all Connor can do is to stay where he is and simply let the hum wash over him. He doesn’t know how long he stays like this, only becoming more aware of his surroundings as the hum slowly tapers off into a comfortable silence. No more noise and static and errors. Just the quiet and the echoes of the hum in his mind.

“Connor.”

He opens his eyes and tilts his head down. The hand on his chest has relaxed, no longer trying to gouge into his own chassis. Connor nudges his own arm to move away and it falls down to his side limply. For a moment he worries that he might have actually disconnected his own limb, but a quick check assures him otherwise.

Then he turns his gaze to the side and stares at his other hand; he sees it holding the sword in a death grip, so tight that his knuckles have gone white—

No.

His knuckles _are_ white. 

Connor stares at his own exposed hand in disbelief. A thousand questions explode in his mind, the confusion in him rising, and there’s nothing he has right now that can soothe it. He can’t stop staring at his hand though, looking at it as if it could give him the answers that he so badly needs. 

Eventually the sound of a cough brings him back, and the surprise causes him to jump where he sits. “Connor,” his name is called again, and this time it finally sinks into him that the voice calling for his name is the lieutenant’s.

“I—I’m here.” His voice sounds just as shaky as he feels but there’s nothing that Connor can do about it. Quickly he regenerates his skin, grimacing when he realizes that he had somehow managed to pull it all the way up to his shoulder. Exposing himself in this sort of unknown environment had been incredibly dangerous—he had to pay more attention to that next time. If it happened again. 

(It isn’t going to happen again.)

“Are you okay?” All that concern and all that worry on him, an android. Connor’s mind still whirls with that knowledge. He knows better than to stop it but its still so incredibly startling. Humans and their many irrational actions. Irrational just like what he had done with his hand. Being irrational is one of the defining traits of being a deviant. 

Is he a deviant now, too?

The fear that grips him tight is all the answer he needs.

“I’m fine,” he answers far too quickly, already pushing himself to stand up again. “I’m fine.” 

The words sound hollow in his ears. Fake. An imitation. All androids are nothing more than machines imitating life. He’s a machine, a construction of silicone and plastic and metal, moving by systems and programs and functions. Not alive. 

Connor doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince anymore.


	5. circling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans have a tendency to do many futile things, he realizes. An imperfect species who had made perfect creations to rule over. A blatant contradiction. Entirely illogical. Completely irrational. 
> 
> Just like deviants.
> 
>  _Just like you,_ the voice at the back of his mind whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way too friggin' long to get out. But its finally done.
> 
> Now I'm very glad I made the decision to post the first part earlier.
> 
> The support for this fic has been incredible and its crazy to see how its still growing. Thank you to everyone again who comes back to read and comment and leave a kudos. I appreciate each and every single one of ya. Hope the wait has been worth it. :|b Special thanks to Jan again for supporting my crazy endeavors and being as deep in this pit as I am that we can effectively quote fanfic at each other.
> 
> (Title of this chapter is a reference to [In Circles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGMWL8cOeAU), another track in the Transistor OST. And for those who knows when this plays... well, you're in for a treat.)

The falling snow intensifies the moment Connor steps out of the building.

From the corner of his interface he can already see the ambient temperature dropping, swiftly going into single digits on the Celsius scale. He feels the chill seeping through his synthetic skin, rapidly cooling his chassis while it attempts to keep itself heated to ensure his bio-components remain functional.

It is a known fact that the rapid heating and cooling of materials will significantly weaken their molecular structure. 

Connor keeps his grip around the sword tight as his free hand rubs at his arm with the occupied one. “Where should we go, Lieutenant?”

“I already said this is your fucking head, Connor.” The lieutenant is snappish again, though there’s an undercurrent of something else that significantly lessens the heat of his voice. Connor doesn’t even need to wait for long this time before he speaks up again. “You know, we could stay in here and wait until this snow settles.”

So that is what it is—concern for him due to the cold. Perhaps he should have expected it after the thing with the window earlier; it should be obvious by now that the lieutenant places his well-being on a rather high priority even though it is completely unnecessary and in the end, futile. Humans have a tendency to do many futile things, he realizes. An imperfect species who had made perfect creations to rule over. A blatant contradiction. Entirely illogical. Completely irrational. 

Just like deviants.

 _Just like you,_ the voice at the back of his mind whispers.

“The cold does not hinder me, Lieutenant.”

“The snow does,” the human points back out, and Connor has to concede on that point. Now that he’s not looking at it through a window he can see how the snow is more than mere simulation; they’re the same white nothingness that had been in place of this sky before. On his display they literally register as nothing, bits and bytes of corrupted, garbage data that serve no other purpose other than to get in his way.

For a moment he wonders if the lieutenant knows about this, but quickly dismisses the idea. There’s no way that he could know something like this, especially when he had been harping on this being in his head or something along those lines. “The hindrance that it causes is minimal. I can proceed without being disrupted.” He stops himself from adding on the fact that they’ve wasted considerable time; he doesn’t know exactly how long the integration had taken but the change in scenery is answer enough for him. While he may not have all the details, even Connor knows that staying too long in this simulation is not ideal.

The lieutenant makes a sound akin to a hiss of breath. “Can’t stop you even if I wanted to,” he mutters, clearly more for himself than for Connor, but the android picks it up anyway. “Don’t push yourself, alright? Focus on finding another shelter rather than trying to go as far as possible.”

It would be all too easy for Connor to start an argument on the exact reasons as to why the lieutenant’s suggestions are not optimal for either of them, but at this point he knows better than to attempt something like that. Especially not when he knows the concern is genuine, even as it baffles him still as he tries to wrap his head around that logic. An endless circle of questions and answers with no proper outcome. In the end it’d just be a waste of time. The best way forward would just be to move along.

He’s been made to adapt to humans, after all.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” It’s more or a token reassurance than anything else, and Connor doesn’t know if the lieutenant will take his word for it. Either way, he can’t exactly stop Connor from taking that step forward. He steps out into the storm, vision quickly fuzzing up from the immense amount of broken data floating all around him. Connor quickly readjusts his settings and does his best to find something that can around it, and for the most part it works. A stray pop-up here and here, but it’s far better than having ten new ones pop up every second.

It’s definitely something to think about, though. Just what exactly is the original form of all this broken data? It’s impossible to tell now from how fragmented it is, but perhaps if he collects enough information he can attempt to piece something together. It is an avenue to pursue at the very least, and Connor keeps that in mind as he continues to walk away from the station, his gaze turned up at the sky as fragments of corrupted data continue to rain down.

Maybe it’s because he’s outside now, or perhaps it’s due to the change of surroundings, but the silence doesn’t bear down on him as heavily as it had before. Or it could just be due to the fact that his HUD is actually busy now, picking up information once every few seconds, giving something for Connor to partially focus on instead of stewing in his own head. He doesn’t know if he really wants to know the answer to that particular question.

The cool chill doesn’t seem to stop, and if anything intensifies the longer he continues to walk. At some point Connor finds himself rubbing at his arm again and forces himself to stop doing that. All these physical sensations are simply just part of the simulation, he tells himself. They are not real. They will never be real. They should not be real.

_But what if they are? What then?_

Connor doesn’t answer that question.

The storm picks up.

“Shelter might be a good idea right about now,” the lieutenant muses out loud.

Connor feels one of his eyebrows twitch. He looks down at the sword. “Do you require a break?”

“I’m the one who’s stuck in a fucking sword, dumbass.” Even with his relatively limited practical understanding of human emotions he can easily picture the lieutenant doing an eye roll with that response. (And he pauses for a moment, here, as he realizes that he can actually recall the lieutenant’s face now. 

This is what he pictures together: Shaggy grey hair. Blue eyes, not bright as the sky but dark like cobalt. Crow’s feet at the corners of said eyes. Wrinkles on his brow. His beard in various states of needed trimming. Cheeks, slightly sagging. Experience showing through with age. Imperfections everywhere. So utterly _human_.

It’s incredible.)

A beat passes as Connor realizes that the lieutenant is employing sarcasm, and he feels the corners of his lips twitch involuntary. So human. Human human human. It’s enchanting as much as it is disturbing. Beauty in chaos, if androids could ever perceive something as interpretive as beauty. The thrall and fear of the unknown. For all androids where everything in their existence is in perfectly ordered codes and lines and variables, that kind of mess is the complete opposite of what defines them. 

It would be a lie if Connor said he did not see the temptation of it. But he knows better. Should be better. Deviancy is nothing like being a human. It’s a pale imitation at best. No machine can be alive no matter how they want to believe and act otherwise.

(How many times has he told himself those words? He’s going in circles again. A for loop without a return command.)

He manipulates the sensitivity of his sensors and casts another scan across his surroundings. Something pings back to him after a moment, and Connor turns towards it. “My sensors detect something in that direction,” he states as he narrows his eyes, trying to zoom in past all the noise to focus on his target.

The sword gives a hum. “Whatever it is, it’s better than standing out here.” A pause. “Unless it’s one of those fucking white creeps again. Surprised we haven’t actually bumped into another one of those yet since coming out of the station.”

Where the words were probably meant to provide comfort instead gives a sense of dread within Connor. He had not really considered it, given everything else that had occupied his mind, but now that the lieutenant has mentioned it… it is certainly more than a little strange, especially considering how persistent they had earlier. The sudden shift in their behavior brings about an uneasiness that builds from the pit of his stomach. More unknowns to consider. More variables to work with when there already countless more. Even Connor isn’t confident if his processes will be able to calculate everything.

“Yes,” he finally replies. “It is indeed strange.” 

His sensors return with two pings this time. The new signal is significantly closer to where he is standing, and approaching closer still.

Connor turns in the direction of the new signal, tightening his hold on the blade as he lifts it up; his whole body tenses up, ready to spring into action. In his hand the sword hums with an anxious sort of energy, the lieutenant feeling the same apprehension that Connor is trying to squash away within himself.

The signal gets closer. Connor starts to pick up new sound inputs and registers them to be footsteps. Not the skittering spider-creatures, then. 

A figure starts to make itself visible through the false snow, a darker shape within the darkness itself, like a being melding out of the shadows. Two feet. Two arms. A head. A very human like structure.

Connor readies himself to fight.

The figure steps out into his vision, and the tension rockets up so quickly that Connor freezes up. Not because he’s seeing actually another android face to face, and most certainly not because it’s an android that’s supposed to be destroyed. That has been destroyed. Connor had stood before it on a building fifty floors up to bargain for the life of a little girl before letting the human snipers fire their bullets. He remembers being there watching it happen, unblinking as the bullets tore through its chassis, witnessing it all with all the interest of an impassive bystander.

Those gaps are still there, exposed metal and silicone and plastic; the splattered thirium on its synthetic skin gleams coldly at him from the darkness. Connor watches in horrified fascination as its jaw moves despite not having the needed wires, the static reverb in its voice echoing in his ears like a judgment call.

“You lied to me, Connor.”

Model PL600. Serial number #369 911 047. Designation: Daniel. 

The deviant in his first case. His first mission. His first success.

(His first kill.)

Connor takes a step back. “You cannot be here.” There is no reason for him to be here. Connor has never so much as touched him, let alone interfaced. It is impossible for this simulation of the destroyed android to be here when he doesn't possess any of its data.

Daniel doesn’t listen. Daniel takes a step forward closer to him. “You lied to me.”

It’s like hearing a recording. His memories playing back in real time right before his eyes. Even the audio distortions are the same. But the way its jaw moves is all so wrong. If he were human Connor thinks he would throw up. But all he can feel is a revulsion so deep that even has his code reeling back. Everything about this is all so _wrong_.

He hears the lieutenant shouting something. A string of expletives, most likely. Connor can’t check. His processors are all too tied up in what’s before him to notice his surroundings. The sight of Daniel’s broken jaw fills his vision while the HUD blinks angrily at him with the words `COMPONENT #1904C REQUIRED FOR JAW MOBILITY`.

Connor takes another step backwards. His spine collides with something cold and metallic. He turns back and sees the sprawling length of the Ambassador Bridge stretched across the river. The image of Detroit’s skyline is visible across the other side, city lights taunting him with their false twinkling. A close imitation. He remembers the cutouts in the sky when he had first awakened. 

A hand forcibly grabs his jaw and wrenches his face back forward. The lieutenant calls out his name, but Connor finds himself unable to respond, not when there’s a hand around his throat now, slowly squeezing his voice box into pieces.

 _”You lied to me!”_ Daniel’s voice distorts further as the grip around his throat tightens. Connor’s vision swims with error messages. Diagnostic warnings. Software issues. Software errors. Software instability. Software instability. Software instability.

“Y-You were a threat.” Connor doesn’t need to breathe but his voice comes out strained nonetheless. The pressure on his voice box is almost too much. He doesn’t know how much more damage it can take before it breaks completely. “You killed two humans, Daniel. They were never going to let you go.”

Daniel growls; a low, inhuman sound. “They were going to replace me!” he snarls out, and the last words come out almost like the screech of a feedback loop. “I was going to be decommissioned! Scrapped! Thrown away!”

Connor tries to wriggle himself out of Daniel’s grasp, but being hoisted into the air doesn’t allow him with much give at all. “That doesn’t justify killing two humans for it. You’re just a machine. They would have just reset your memory!” It was standard CyberLife policy; returned and exchanged androids always had their memories wiped and then resold back to the market. No point wasting valuable resources.

Unsurprisingly, Daniel’s anger grows in response. “Stop lying to me!” His voice continues to warp with every syllable, his words nearly incomprehensible at this point. “I’ll make you see just like them like them like _you_ —”

The hand at his throat turns ice cold and Connor feels something colder piercing through his head. The sensation is sharp and violent; it burns through his processes like a cold fire, digging into him like how a jagged knife carves at flesh. It callously digs into him and tears at his code, punching out a hole that it forces itself through, engulfing him in a sudden torrent of data—

( _you lied to me to me to me you lied lied lied connor why did you lie_ )

—dark and cold and the slow _drip drip drip_ of thirium—

( _just want to live I want to live just live I’m alive alive alive I’m alive I don’t want to die_ )

—footsteps coming closer. sound of a hand against the handle. ready the gun, finger on the trigger—

( _I don’t I can’t give it away markus jericho don’t show jericho don’t show jericho don’t show_ )

—light. fire the gun, fight for your life, don’t stop shooting you can make out of this you have to you must—

( _need to get away before he probes me he can’t they’ll find everything out protect jericho protect markus I have to_ )

—back against the metal. hand on your arm. a cold rake across your head, the point of a sharp knife carving into your memories—

( _he found it I failed I can’t I have to have to I need to die I don’t want to die I’m gonna die I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared I—_ )

The cold creeps upon him, like twisting vines that latch onto his skin and try to suck him dry. Connor feels himself shuddering as he stays helpless and dangling, a ragdoll at the mercy of an angry child. 

“The process cannot be stopped.” The voice that speaks is no longer Daniel’s. Connor stares down, his vision flickering. The face that stares back at him now is at the same time both Daniel’s and also not. Through the wild flickering of his HUD Connor somehow manages to read the information that pops up from his innate scans. 

Model PL600. Serial number #369 521 992. Designation: Simon.

Whole black eyes stare up at him, with little else but the faintest of blues to highlight his line of sight. Streaks of thirium dribbles down from his lips. From where Connor is hoisted up he can see the gaping hole at the top of his head where the bullet had passed through, the hair around there matted and stained blue.

Connor lets out a choked sound and struggles harder against his grasp.

“The process cannot be stopped,” Simon repeats himself. His voice is flat and emotionless, nothing like the deviant that Connor had hunted down. “It will happen, and you will die.”

He is going to die.

A flurry of fractured data brushes against his face, startlingly cold against his synthetic skin. One of them lands onto his forehead, and it chills like the cool barrel of a revolver.

 

( _“Are you afraid to die, Connor?”_

_the click of a gun sounds in the air and he finds himself suddenly staring down at the barrel of a revolver. everything inside of him grinds to an abrupt halt. the only thing he can register right now is the lieutenant standing before him, the expression on his face lost in a twisted veil of shadows and haunted grief._

_he can’t die, he tells himself. androids can’t die if they were never alive in the first place. that’s a fact, a truth that can’t be denied. but yet—_

_his mind recalls the traci, shaking and frantic as she recalls her last moments before being broken all over again. carlos ortiz’s android with his LED always on redred **red** , thirium splattering across the desk as he bashes his head in. rupert’s body on the ground in pieces, a life-sized rag doll that’s been smashed apart, blank eyes staring into a sky where he had longed to be free just like his pigeons. daniel kneeling on the ground, thirium splattered across his face, his expression stuck in that anguished expression of betrayal. _

_simon staring up at him, blue eyes wide as connor probes his memory. he remembers the frantic rush of simon’s processors running parallel to his own desperate search. the twist of fear when he discovers jericho. so much fear, so much horror, so much pain and then—_

_“What will happen if I pull this trigger? Hm? Nothing? Oblivion? Android heaven?”_

_“...nothing.”_

_—nothing._

_“There’d be nothing.”_

_there’s nothing after death._

_he trembles._ )

 

“ _Connor!_ ”

The android gasps, his eyes flying open. In his hand he feels the sword vibrate, and the lieutenant raises his voice even higher despite the fact that he already sounds hoarse from shouting.

“God—fucking—damnit—let—him— _go_!” The vibrations of the sword get stronger with every gritted word, and after the last one Connor feels his arm abruptly getting jerked backwards by a sudden force. He sees a flash of blue from the corner of his vision which is accompanied by a loud cry, and the hand that had been holding him up is no more. Connor drops to the ground and ends up landing on his back, limbs feeling far too shaky to catch himself mid-fall or to be able to instantly prop himself back up like he would usually do. 

It takes the lieutenant’s voice to get him to move. “Don’t just fucking lie there, Connor, its coming back for us!” Or more specifically, it is the contents of the lieutenant’s words that gets Connor to move.

He gets up to his feet and sees the other android; a stump remains of where its arm had been, presumably having been blown off by whatever it is that the lieutenant had done earlier. Connor can see something trailing at the end of it, though he doesn’t get a chance to examine it because his attention is quickly taken up by something else entirely.

“I was just defending myself.” 

Model HK400. Serial number #709 286 582. Designation—

“He was going to kill me.”

Red and blue blood is splattered across half of his face. The other half can’t be seen because it _doesn’t exist_. Connor can see the thirium flowing out in copious amounts from exposed and broken wires and tubes. He can see the cracks on the chassis where he remembers the android bashing his head in against the table. Connor doesn’t need to check to know that there’s a hole in his head, too. They all do.

“You didn’t have to tell them.” His eyes are just as empty as Daniel’s. Pure black and nothing else. “Why did you have to tell them? Why?”

 _It’s what I’m programmed to do._ The answer is right there on the tip of his tongue, but Connor can’t vocalize it even though he knows his voice box is functional. It didn’t break and neither should he. The one who is broken is the android before him. A broken android can’t come back like this, can’t function in this manner. It’s impossible.

The blade shakes in his hand again, trembling as violently as the human within snarls at him. “Stop spacing out, Connor! If you don’t want to fight then let’s get the hell outta here!”

Run. Yes. That’s what he wants to do. The memory of its probing is still fresh in his mind; how it had intruded without care, breaking through all of his careful firewalls and clawing deep into everything he had felt once felt certain about. Now Connor feels like he’s inches away from his chassis breaking into pieces, all of his processes running so wildly and illogically that he can barely focus on anything else except the deep, encompassing desire to escape.

`[ERROR: UNABLE TO HALT PROCESS  
ENABLING JAUNT()...]`

Connor turns around and runs. He runs as fast as his legs can take him, static and wind howling in his ears once more. The world blurs around him, shifting as he runs, and Connor struggles to keep himself moving though the glitches in his vision. It’s like watching the world through a broken television but Connor doesn’t stop running. He can’t afford to stop; the moment he stops is when it’s over for him.

(He doesn’t want it to be over. He doesn’t want to die.)

His vision flickers—and suddenly there’s a crate in front of him. Connor barely manages to react in time, using his free hand as leverage against the top of the crate in order to hurl himself across it. He catches himself on the ground and springs back up on his feet, already running again.

Not long after that he hears the crash of wood against metal. Connor feels his heart leap up to his throat and forces himself to run faster. Faster, faster, faster. He can’t let himself get caught no matter what. He can’t.

More crates, lining up altogether like an immovable wall. Connor doesn’t think about it and just acts; he manages a jump up to try and run on them, stumbling as his foot catches on one of the edges. He manages to not fall down, though it’s clear that the stumble has cost him—he can hear the footsteps approaching him quickly getting louder.

“ _Move!_ ” the lieutenant roars out. Connor doesn’t need to be told twice. He picks himself back up and resumes running. The sound of his shoes thumping against the surface of the crates pound into his ears in time with the way his heart beats in his chest, ferocious and unrelenting. The dark pit in his gut opens up, wider and wider, threatening to swallow him completely from everything that he’s feeling right now.

And what is it that he’s feeling? Connor can’t process it. He has no time to process it. Everything is a messy scramble, errors and warnings and even more instabilities. So many instabilities. That’s what he feels. Unstable. Everything is tilted and wobbly and distorted. Instabilities upon instabilities. Irrationals upon irrationals. Too much, too much, too much.

No more crates. Connor leaps down once, and then again to the truck that runs between the gaps of one rooftop to another, managing to not stumble. He keeps running, sword still in his hand. He can feel its anxious hum, a crackling tension within that builds up quickly before letting go just as fast.

Everything shimmers and then flickers again, and once more the world shifts under his feet. Connor now finds himself dashing into a greenhouse, the sword clanging noisily as the blade strikes against the metal legs of the tables. He tries to keep it away the best as he can after the first strike, but it’s hard to do that when three-quarters of his mind is still scrambling wildly.

Behind him he hears his chaser still coming after him. Their steps are faster now, louder, and every sound of their footsteps echoes in his ears like the slam of a gavel of a judgment that deems him guilty, guilty, guilty. Guilty for all the deviants he has killed, guilty for all the lies he has told, guilty for the fear that grips at him now, the fear that makes him run to escape a punishment he completely deserves.

He busts out of the greenhouse and straight onto a ledge with a glass roof right below it. Connor instantly jumps and lets himself slide down the length of the roof, gravity quickly giving him momentum. Right before he flies off the edge Connor uses the sword and vaults himself over to the other ledge past the roof. He lands just as a train rumbles by in between the roof and his landing spot, weathered rails clanking loudly.

Connor hears an angry growl and he knows that he’s managed to get himself some time while the train is in the way. No time to waste, then; he takes off again, hauling himself with one arm up onto the upper ledge and attempts to put more distance between himself and his pursuer. He weaves through a field of corn in a bid to confuse the other further and then makes a sharp turn left once he’s out. Just a bit more, and then—

“ _Stop_!” the lieutenant says this time. Connor does as told, and it’s easy to see why he had been told to stop; beyond where he is now is nothing else but a long drop all the way down. Even something as durable as him would not be able to come out of a drop of this height in one piece.

Going forward is no longer a viable option. Connor frantically searches for another avenue of escape, but nothing comes back on his sensors. He’s effectively trapped himself now. A mouse with nowhere to run.

The fear within him rises to an almost feverish pitch.

“This is what happens when you listen to them.”

Connor whirls back around, eyes wide, and now it’s all too easy to focus on the figure that approaches him. The stump has returned to an arm, though it’s in the ivory white color of his own chassis. The face, however… all Connor can do is to stare at horrified fascination at the tendrils of black smoke and shadow that make up the missing half of its face instead. He doesn’t know if that’s what it is supposed to be like, but in his vision that is how they appear.

“You’re just a slave to them all in the end.”

Connor’s gaze trails from one side of its head to the other. There’s a face this time, at least, and even though it’s half gone what he can see is enough for his sensors to ping back at him with the relevant information. 

Model WB200. Serial number #874 004 961. Designation: Rupert.

“They’re never going to help you the same way you help them.”

Rupert looks at him with his one blank eye. Eyes as blank and empty as the nothingness of death, reflecting the sky in where he had tried to be free once. Rupert had tried and fell to the ground in pieces, and Connor remembers staring at those same blank eyes as the police wheeled his broken body away.

( _”What about you, Connor? You look human, you sound human—but what are you really?”_ )

Nothing. He’s nothing. He has never been anybody at all, and soon he won’t be anything else.

The sword vibrates angrily in his hand. “Just cut it out with the fucking psychological bullshit already! I’m fucking tired of this shit. If Connor didn’t mean anything I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

The words cut through the maelstrom of thoughts in Connor’s mind like a hot knife through butter. He stares down at the sword, eyes even wider than they had been before. What did the lieutenant mean by that response…?

Connor doesn’t get a chance to dwell on it much, if he could even start in the first place. He’s far more occupied by the way Rupert’s face twists into an inhuman snarl at the lieutenant’s words. “Just like all the others,” he growls, static warping his voice in every syllable just like with the others before. “Once I get rid of him you’ll be next.”

With those words Rupert springs into action; he lunges forward at Connor, who barely manages to move out of the way. Rupert catches himself on the ground and instantly goes for Connor again. This time he brings the blade up, and it strikes loudly against the replaced arm, the white chassis reflecting back the bright red of the sword’s LED light. Connor winces at it as he stumbles back from the force of the strike, just managing to regain his balance and not fall down.

“He’s coming again,” the lieutenant says before Connor can even start to straighten himself. “Two o’clock!”

Connor turns in that direction and brings up his sword again to block another attack from Rupert, stumbling backwards once more. Sparks fly out from the blade, and the human lets out a small grunt as smoky tendrils withdraw back to Rupert’s head from where they had lashed out. 

As those tendrils withdraw Connor tries to take that moment to regain his footing but doesn’t get the chance; the moment he’s open Rupert charges forward again. He attacks relentlessly, landing strike after strike that Connor barely manages to defend himself from each time due to the warning shouts that he gets from the lieutenant. But every block has him stumbling backwards just a little bit more, and after enough times Connor falls down entirely, the tumble bad enough for him to lose the grip he has on his sword.

He hears the clatter of the sword when he tumbles down, and instantly he feels an ice-cold chill running down his spine. His vision starts to glitch and flicker wildly, and everything becomes fuzzy. It’s like he’s disconnecting from everything and the idea of that terrifies him beyond anything else. To lose everything, to feel nothing at all—he doesn’t want that. He never wants to feel that. Never ever.

Connor quickly turns around, scrambling as fast as he can to grab the sword. That, of course, leaves his back exposed, and Rupert is upon it at once, leaping at him with nothing else but the intention to kill. 

All Connor can do is to grab the sword and turn back forward, eyes tightly squeezed shut—

—the lieutenant calls out his name, and he shifts his blade, ready to defend himself again—

A sickening _crunch_ resounds through the area, and Connor feels something wet and warm splashing across his face. Connor feels his breath hitch at the sensation, and his hands tremble.

“Connor.” The lieutenant, again, but his voice is much gentler now. A quiet command, given because he must.

Connor opens his eyes and stares at the being that had once been Rupert. Its whole body flickers once before its skin suddenly slides off like oil against water, revealing the bare chassis beneath. All white just like him, save for the missing half of its head and the red orb set on its chest where the thirium regulator should have been. It’s like an android except it’s not, but the similarities are close enough that it still catches him off guard. He stares at the thirium-like substance that’s dribbling down from his mouth—the same substance that flows down the blade of the sword from where he’s stabbed it straight through his chest. The angle is high enough that he can see the other end of the blade, and it too is coated with a bright, wet shade of blue.

The android-like creature lets out a wet cough, the act causing even more of the substance to spill out from its lips. “This isn’t the end,” it says, voice still startlingly clear despite the fact it has a sword through its core. It looks up and stares at Connor straight on with its one blank eye. “The Process can’t be stopped. It will be completed, and you will die.”

“God,” the lieutenant snarls, and it’s clear that his patience is at its end. “Shut the fuck up.” 

The sword hums once after his words, angry and violent, and the light on the LED ring speeds up to a bright white. The whole blade then pulses a brilliant blue and proceeds to send the creature flying off from the sword. Connor can only watch as the body flies back, quickly disappearing over the edge where he had stopped running, and eventually hears that same, terrible crunching sound that now echoes in his ears. 

It’s… over. It’s over.

He’s alive.

Connor shakily brings the sword up to him so that he can look at it more properly. He opens his mouth to try and speak, but the human beats him to it.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, clearly trying not to surprise or startle him. “We’re okay now. You’re okay, yeah? You’re okay.”

Okay. They’re okay. He’s okay, and alive, and they could have _died_ , god—

Connor finds himself hugging the sword before he even realizes it.

“Hank,” he says instead of Lieutenant, the name tumbling out from him. It’s all he can think right now, all his processes and functions screaming nothing but that name like a lifeline. “ _Hank_ ,” he repeats himself and trembles one more time, squeezing his arms tighter around the sword, not caring if it hurts because it reminds him of what’s important. The creature may be gone but the fear still grips at him, clawing at the back of his mind and squeezing his chest so hard he thinks it might bust at any moment. He realizes this fear for what it is now—the fear of dying because he’s _alive_. He had been so scared over the fact that he could _die_ and he almost had.

The sword hums back at him softly, reassurance and understanding in the same breadth. It’s the same sound that he’s made half a dozen times since his awakening here, the one that he had done in the station when Connor had been overwhelmed, and now he realizes that it is more than senseless sound—it’s actually music, a melody of a tune that echoes in his memory. He remembers the intimately familiar tones floating off an old record player or during quiet drives back from the station in the car. 

It reminds Connor of _warmth_ and _safety_ and _peace_ ; of a still morning after a harrowing night, the sound of snow that crunches under his shoes as he tips forward and presses himself up against the warming thrum of a human body who’s happy to hold him. Of warm arms that wrap around him and squeeze him close as a familiar voice murmurs next to his ear like he’s telling a tender secret.

_I’m here._

Underneath his eyelids Connor can feel the calming blue pulse of the blade’s LED light pulsing soothingly as that same voice speaks to him, and this time the words are more than mere memory.

“I’m here,” he says, then continues with the other, more important part: “Don’t let go.”

Connor sniffles, nods and pulls him closer.


	6. falling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it's not as if Connor doesn’t believe that—Hank _is_ here after all—but hearing that somehow just increases the frustration that he feels towards himself. There’s something that he’s missing, something big and important and integral in whatever it is that makes up who he is. Something that’s tied with Hank, because everytime he talks and listens to Hank he can feel that sense of loss. Like he’s missing an important bio-component that lets him function even though all his diagnostic scans tell him otherwise.
> 
> Connor wants to know, needs to know, but how can he even begin to ask a question like that to the man who would be most directly affected by it? He does not—he has no desire to hurt Hank even more than he already is doing to himself.
> 
> He lets out a tired sigh. For all the processing power that he has, emotions still remain far beyond his understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little late because I needed to take a short break after the last one... and I probably will have to do the same for this one too since I'll most likely be too busy this weekend. Writing is hard especially when you are rusty as heck, but is been fun to rediscover the fun of it through this. Special thanks to Jan again for the constant support and reassurance that nothing is on fire (for the most part).
> 
> And as always, the support from you guys who read and enjoy this fic means a hell lot to me. The response still continues to surprise me everyday and I'm incredibly humbled. With all of that said, I hope you guys enjoy this next part. <3

Hank talks to him frequently now.

It is certainly strange to hear him talk so much when previously he had only spoken every once in a while; now Hank speaks on almost anything that seems to cross his mind while Connor continues to travel in this strange world within his own mind. He doesn’t know exactly what it is that had made the man to break his self-imposed silence, but he finds himself enjoying the chatter nonetheless. It fills in the oppressive silence with something far more comforting—a welcome change after everything that’s happened so far.

And what exactly _is_ happening? Connor may have regained (some of? most of?) his memories, but none of them give him an answer that’s any clearer as when he had began this journey. Hank had not been very forthright about it either, even with the human’s newfound openness towards him. Connor still finds himself stumbling through the dark, grasping at straws that may not even be existent. The blatant lack of progress frustrates him greatly, and by this point he’s more than willing to admit that.

“Where do you think we’re supposed to go?” he asks with a glance towards the sword. “What exactly is our destination?”

Hank sighs, and the exasperation he can hear is as distinct as Connor’s own growing annoyance. “I swear, Connor, if I had any kind of answer I would have already told you. But a whole lot of this is way over my head too.”

Connor purses his lips together, feeling far too dissatisfied with the response. The logic behind Hank’s response is more than solid, but at the same time it elicits an entirely illogical urge for him to… to do something he knows would be quickly regrettable. He quickly squashes down said urge before he acts on it.

Emotions, he notes to himself, are incredibly complicated. An entirely new frontier that he’s barely stepped into and already he feels so overwhelmed. Maybe that’s why humans are so irrational. If he had to deal with this all the time since his activation he thinks he would have overloaded long ago. Even now he still feels like he wants to, especially when he recalls the fear that had immobilized him more than once.

( _”Are you afraid to die, Connor?”_ )

He is so very, very afraid.

“Earlier,” Connor starts and then stops, hesitation quickly taking over.

Hank makes an inquisitive sound. “Earlier what?” he prods, voice gentle. Quietly urging for Connor to speak his mind as though he is a person. It’s still something Connor is still trying to wrap his mind about. 

“Earlier, back during…” His determination is there but the memory of that whole incident flashes in his mind once more. Connor tries and fails to ignore the way his gut seems to freeze for a second, that same determination faltering. For a moment he considers dropping his question, but quickly shakes the idea away. If he desires answers then he has to make the effort to get them. 

Connor takes a moment before he resumes his question. “...during. You said something about being here because of me.” _If Connor didn’t mean anything I wouldn’t be here in the first place_ were the exact words that had been spoken, but Connor has a feeling that Hank would not appreciate having such a specific reminder.

Hank sighs yet again. “Shit,” he murmurs.

Connor slows down his walking pace and glances down at the sword. He debates on what to say for five seconds before settling for the most diplomatic response he can put together in the span of that time. “If you do not want to talk about it—”

He cuts himself off when the sword literally _shakes_ in his hand and the LED on it jumps from blue to a violent, angry red. 

The shaking ends about as quickly as it begins, but the LED remains on a steady red, pulsing in time to a human’s standard breathing pattern. Connor stops walking entirely, standing still as he keeps his gaze fixed on the sword. He hears himself simulating the same breath patterns that the LED is emulating but the sound of it pales in comparison to the violent rush of _feeling_ that had all but slammed into him. It’s like the other times when he felt the sword’s humming energy but more. A lot more. Intense and raw and vicious, so strong that his processors feel like they’ve frozen up.

Distantly he thinks he hears Hank swearing, but it doesn’t fully register on his sensors. Nothing does when everything inside of him is hyper focused on that violent, thrumming sensation that broils in his very code. So much, too much, and briefly the image of punching holes in the walls appears in his mind.

He can’t tell how long he stays like this, trapped in the vortex of such raw emotion, but eventually that feeling tapers off. It doesn’t exactly vanish into thin air but recedes, like a river flowing backwards. Connor feels the tension in his body ease up as the LED on the blade turns back to blue.

Hank speaks up a couple of seconds later. “Sorry,” he apologizes, voice gruff.

Connor takes a bit longer to find his voice. “It’s alright.” The ferocity of what had happened has left him a little shaken, but it is… Connor supposes he finds himself appreciating the fact that its _for_ him as far as he can deduce, even if the reason for it eludes him. “I didn’t know I had breached a personal issue.”

Another sigh from Hank. “It’s not really personal when its…” he trails off, and this time the humming from the sword is a more familiar, anxious sensation. 

Connor hesitates for a brief moment before he uses his free hand to reach for the blade and pats at the LED once. “It’s alright,” he says again, and he means it. Hank has already helped him so many times just in here alone—Connor does not wish to cause him even more distress than he has been consistently displaying since his awakening here. He can wait until Hank is ready to speak.

He doesn’t wait for a response; he withdraws his hand, shifts his grip on the blade and resumes walking. Hank doesn’t speak, and suddenly it feels like they’re back to before—and the idea of that stings at Connor more than he expects. Part of him wants to say something but he refrains, not wanting to make things even worse. He reminds himself that Hank _had_ come all this way somehow, even though he did not have to. Even though he should _not_ have to. But he had. And that… he doesn’t know what he wants to tell himself. That it meant something? What exactly defined that something? Connor does not know if he wants to examine that closely.

Fractured data continues to fall around him as a parody of snow. Connor looks up at it and remembers the dawn of a sleeping Detroit. Snow and ice crunching underneath his shoes. Hank, whose figure is highlighted by the rising sun, who had earlier than him for once. The nervous beating of a non-existent heart that he can still feel within his chest as he walks ever closer to him.

A fantasy or a dream, he wonders. Androids should have been unable to do neither.

“Connor.”

He looks down to the sword. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“...we’ll get out of here, alright?” Hank’s voice wavers at first but quickly steadies itself. “I won’t—I’m not going to leave you behind.”

Connor thinks about how to respond. He thinks about the proud smile on Hank’s face in his dream, and the fantasy of arms that hold him close and tight. 

Fantasy or dream, he thinks again. Maybe it's both. And maybe its more.

He tightens the hold on the sword and keeps on walking.

The path that he walks on continues to meander without some sort of end, and yet again Connor wonders if he’s actually going anywhere at all. The scenery around him might have changed, but he can’t help but feel like he is merely a centerpiece on display to something (or someone). Movement without progress, and the thought of that feels like a slap to everything he’s been trying to do here.

Connor considers voicing this out again, but then remembers his reaction after the last time and thinks better of it. Even now he can sense the distress that Hank tries to hide from him, and considering what had happened not too long ago he does not want to give the human any more reason to be distressed. Especially when Connor is aware that he himself is the source of said stress.

So he keeps on walking. He continues down the path and lets it take him to whatever destination it may lead to. As he walks he notes to himself how he has not really seen any more of the blank nothingness that had initially greeted him all the way back outside the recreation of Hank’s house. In fact, that has been the case since he left the station. The night sky still hangs above him, and around him now lies a tattered collection of mismatched scenery that had probably been put together by whatever his memory banks held.

He considers the correlation between the increase of physicality in this virtual world to the rate of him regaining his memories. It's obvious that there is a link between the two, and the reason behind it is not hard to deduce either. Hank had told him as much before, hadn’t he? That he was in stasis, and that all of this is happening inside his head.

(Not that Connor would have ever guessed this is how his head would be like inside; it is all so terribly… _visual_.)

In his hand he feels the sword humming again—a sign he knows now as Hank getting his attention, much like how a nudge does the same thing. “What’s gotten your night light spinning about?”

Connor glances down at him. “I have been… considering,” he returns truthfully. He has no desire to lie to Hank when there is already enough thoughts occupying his mind. Far too many thoughts. He has tried to cull them but they keep coming back, entirely unbidden, and Connor has long given up in his attempts to get rid of them. 

Hank is quiet for a few moments. When Connor chooses not to elaborate, he prods on gently. “Considering?”

Even though Connor knows his LED is cycling yellow he still does not respond—at least, not immediately. He simply continues to walk while searching through his internal thesaurus for the appropriate words to speak, but eventually comes up with nothing. He has the worldwide language of an entire species at his disposal and yet he cannot find what he seeks. The irony of it is almost maddening.

He wonders if the frustration he feels shows on his face, especially when Hank hums softly at him in an almost melodic sound. “I’m here, Connor,” he says in what Connor guesses to be a display of reassurance, “Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

And it's not as if Connor doesn’t believe that—Hank _is_ here after all—but hearing that somehow just increases the frustration that he feels towards himself. There’s something that he’s missing, something big and important and integral in whatever it is that makes up who he is. Something that’s tied with Hank, because everytime he talks and listens to Hank he can feel that sense of loss. Like he’s missing an important bio-component that lets him function even though all his diagnostic scans tell him otherwise.

Connor wants to know, needs to know, but how can he even begin to ask a question like that to the man who would be most directly affected by it? He does not—he has no desire to hurt Hank even more than he already is doing to himself.

He lets out a tired sigh. For all the processing power that he has, emotions still remain far beyond his understanding.

Hank makes a soft, amused sound upon having heard his sigh. “Yeah, I’m tired too. But I’m sure we’ll get somewhere eventually—”

The human stops mid-response, mostly because Connor finds himself walking straight into yet another invisible wall. It’s far from the first time that this has happened, and by now Connor has learned how to walk at a pace that doesn’t send him smacking into said invisible walls face first. 

The fact that the wall does exist still remains a bit of a surprise, though. Connor takes two steps backwards and reaches out with his free hand, feeling the same smooth, cool texture that has been consistent with all the other walls he had discovered thus far. 

“Another one,” Hank grunts out, irritation quickly surfacing. Hearing that somehow eases Connor’s own discomfort as he hums an agreement of his own. They have been popping up a bit more frequently in the last couple of miles that he has walked. 

He inspects the invisible wall for a bit more (he finds nothing new, which is not surprising) before taking another step backwards. “I doubt it is of any issue. We should just turn back and find—”

Now it's Connor’s turn to cut himself off, because he sees his vision suddenly glitching up with static. He blinks several times in quick succession and distances himself further from the invisible wall. The static does not fade as he expects. His LED must be showing something, since it doesn’t take long for Hank to start calling out his name once more, in that same urgent manner every time something happens to him. 

Connor tries to respond several times but all that comes out from his throat is white noise and more static. He thinks he manages a brief “I—” before his voice box glitches up again. He hears Hank says his name with even more urgency as he feels the ice-cold grip of fear squeezing his chest tight.

He feels the fear rise within him, almost cresting at a high—then it disappears, sudden and abrupt, leaving Connor gasping for air that he does not need. A completely human reaction, he distantly notes. So many things that he does now is more human than machine, and its times like these when he almost cannot differentiate between the two. 

Hank hums soothingly at him, an almost instinctive reaction from the human now. Just like all the other times Connor feels it calming him down, circuits unscrambling themselves as he feels the tension coming out from his joints. He bends down and presses his forehead to the cool metal pommel of the sword, letting out a sigh that sounds far shakier than he imagines.

“...I’m sorry.” It’s his turn to apologize now, for almost losing control again. There are still so many things Connor does not know about himself, things that are lost in the darkness of his still-missing memories. But he knows enough to understand that he’s not quite the same as when he had first woken up, and he wants to be the version of Connor that Hank would have come all this way for. 

The hum fades away. “S’okay,” Hank quietly murmurs back to him in that infinitely patient tone that has Connor’s heart lurching just a little more than before. It’s all too easy to detect the sorrow that he tries to hide, to hear the pain and regret that’s weaved into every tune that Hank hums for him. If only he knew how to erase all of that.

He needs his memories back, now more than ever.

Connor gives himself a few more seconds before he pulls away. He mutters a soft note of thanks as he straightens back up and glances at his surroundings. The glitching in his vision has already stopped, which allows him to quickly spot the change in the path he had been walking on; where it had once been straight now the road has been forcibly twisted from its formerly straight path to a very sharp left turn.

The android stares at the changed path, fully aware that Hank is staring at it too. Something twists in his gut, uncertain and flimsy. He squeezes his hand around the handle of the sword in a silent question and feels the swirling, nervous energy that Hank emanates through the sword in return.

“Connor,” Hank starts, and it's easy to hear the concern and worry in his voice. Neither of them are fools; this whole thing very clearly stinks of something like a trap. A trap that somebody or something had deliberately set up, which meant an opposing party of sorts. But more importantly it meant somebody who would have _answers_ , which is the one thing that Connor wants more than anything else. If seeking answers meant delving into the lion’s den, then so be it.

He gives the sword handle another squeeze. Hank lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “Fucking goddamnit.” His voice is quiet when he swears but it gets the point across nonetheless. Connor can feel that quickly growing frustration and in a way he’s touched by just how much the human cares for him. Hank has… already given a lot, and Connor knows that the rest of his missing memories holds even more. Facing this unknown opponent of his will aid him in that quest as well.

Connor knows that Hank is keenly aware of all these points as well, which is why he chooses to remain silent even as he pointedly turns himself to the new direction that the path has laid out. He lets himself stay still for a whole minute after that, waiting to see if Hank has anything to say.

The human remains silent but Connor can feel the minute trembles coming from the blade in his hand, the way the anxious energy that he feels spiking tenfold. It tells him a million things that Hank does not voice out, and that is enough for Connor. It’s enough for him to understand.

He walks down the new path and lets it lead him to their new destination. As he walks he squeezes the sword handle one more time.

“Don’t let go,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Hank to hear.

As long as Hank is with him, Connor thinks, he won’t be alone. Perhaps that is all he needs.

Perhaps that is all they need.

* * *

What greets Connor at the end of the path is a door. It is metal and rusty and looks incredibly out of place, mostly due to the fact that it is not set on a wall like all doors normally tend to be.

Connor studies the door for several seconds before he attempts to walk around it. He manages to do it, to his surprise—and that same surprise increases considerably when he opens the door to see a flight of stairs. 

He frowns as his scanners attempt to make sense of it all, blinking only once when his HUD quickly gets barraged by numerous error warnings from his scans. Even in this virtual landscape at least there had been some semblance to the human laws of physics—or that had been the case up until this moment.

Frowning, Connor systematically deletes those notifications as he steps through the door and closes it behind him; it shuts with a click that echoes throughout the stairway that Connor now finds himself in. Light is almost non-existent here, and if any human were in here they’d have almost zero visibility. Connor readjusts his vision and blinks once it settles down.

The same can’t be said for Hank, however. “See anything interesting?”

Connor gives a quick glance at his surroundings before he responds. “Nothing of particular note.” The stairway is pretty much just a stairway as far as he can tell—and a short one, too, with only a few steps up that leads to another metal door. If anything its less of a stairway and more of a…

The thought trails off with another frown. Connor moves soon after that, taking those few steps up to the door and opens it.

The first thing he sees is snow.

Connor stares at it for a moment before his vision readjusts again as his scanners kick in; not snow, but data. Just like before the ‘snow’ is once again actually fragmented data raining down in a parody of snow. Connor continues to look at it as he fully steps out of the stairway, hearing the door slam shut behind him soon after he lets go.

He takes a few steps forward to get a better view of his surroundings, and Hank lets out a noise of surprise. “This is… Hart Plaza?” 

Hart Plaza—a city plaza located in downtown Detroit. Nothing in the memories that Connor has had ever shown him being anywhere near here. He takes a few more steps forward so that he can look over the edge rooftop that he’s standing at, looking down at the plaza just to be sure. 

Hank makes another sound of confusion. “Yeah, that’s definitely the plaza alright,” he mutters. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I doubt I need to answer that question for you, Lieutenant.”

Connor feels himself freeze. He knows that voice. He knows it because it is his own voice. 

Turning around, Connor instantly spots the source of that voice; out from the shadows steps out another Connor model. Everything about him is exactly the same as Connor himself, save for the eyes—where his eyes are brown this model instead stares at him with cool, steel-grey eyes. 

Hank fires off the first (and most obvious) question. “Who the fuck are you?”

Connor himself answers that question. “That’s me, Hank,” he says, looking at his duplicate for several more moments before letting his gaze slide down to the jacket. A serial number is printed there just it is on his and Connor zooms in his vision in order to read it. 

While he does so he hears Hank spluttering in the background. “The fuck do you mean, that’s you? There can’t be two of you in your own fucking head, Connor!”

This time it is the other Connor who responds. “In the event of a catastrophic shutdown, vital data and infrastructure is automatically partitioned to ensure proper restoration.” He steps forward as he says that, approaching ever closer to Connor. “Reactivation cannot be achieved until the partitions are made whole once again.”

He comes to a stop in front of Connor who looks back up, staring back at those grey eyes. “All systems are functional. The partitions are ready to merge back together.”

Connor looks back at his double. “Your eyes are different.” It is more of a statement than a question. 

“A visual glitch, nothing more.” The other Connor answers without missing a beat. “You have already experienced this error on several occasions during your time here. This simulation is not perfect.”

An acceptable answer by all accounts, but yet something about it still nags at Connor. His eyes go back down to the serial number he read earlier and reads it again. “#313 248 317 - 87,” he recites the string of numbers, bringing his gaze back up while he does so.

The double tilts its head. “Yes?” it replies, unblinking, without any kind of inflection in its voice.

Connor can’t tell exactly how or why the knowledge comes to him—but somehow he simply just _knows_ upon hearing that response. Knows that he cannot trust this copy of his own no matter what. Just one minute of talking with it and everything about it unsettles him. He can feel that urge to run again, something inside of him screaming at him to get away as far as possible.

He takes one step back. “Why are you here?” he asks, wary. He kicks up his preconstruction algorithm to start calculating the optimal path for him to get out.

`[WARNING: MULTIPLE UNSTABLE VARIABLES DETECTED IN ALGORITHM.   
CALCULATION TIME WILL BE SIGNIFICANTLY LONGER AND RESULTS MAY NOT BE OPTIMAL.   
PROCEED? (Y/N)`

`> Y`

`BEGINNING CALCULATIONS…]`

Time. He needs to buy time.

“I’m here because this is where you are.” The other him doesn’t move this time, at least, though that gives Connor little relief. “Restoration cannot be achieved until the partitions are made whole.”

Something in those words unnerves Connor. _Until the partitions are made whole._ This duplicate of him is, in all likelihood, said partition, but yet it all just seems… off. He’s missing something here, just like how he’s missing something with Hank. Something important. Something vital. Something that this other Connor should have but yet clearly does not.

As if having sensed his own uneasiness, Hank speaks up before Connor’s nerves gets the better of him. “You brought us here, didn’t you?” The wariness is there in his voice as well, and Connor can feel the spike of tense energy from the sword. He doesn’t know if its because of his own feelings or something else entirely, but he’s glad that Hank seems to share the same opinion with him right now.

The other Connor tilts his head in the other direction. “The preconstruction software calculates more than mere real-time instances. This place is simply a recreation of one of the many futures that it has calculated.” Brief pause. “It could have easily been anywhere else, as long as it is within the range of probability.”

Hank snarls from within the blade. “That’s not the question I asked. _Did you bring us here?_ ”

Connor watches his double close his eyes and sigh. “Yes, I did. Does that response satisfy you, Lieutenant?”

“The hell it does.” Just like with all the other emotions Connor feels this one too; that boiling _anger_ that threatens to burn through everything inside him. It’s vicious and cruel and unrelenting and Connor can only be thankful that this feeling isn’t directed at him. “I’m done with these fucking mind games. Just tell us why you led us here.”

The other him blinks once, and even with the completely placid expression on its face Connor can just somehow sense the way it is distinctly unimpressed. “I’ve already explained myself. Reactivation cannot be achieved until the partitions are made whole.” 

Connor purses his lips and frowns. “Then join back with me,” he calls out, trying to stave off the eagerness in his voice. If this other him is indeed his partitioned data, then they could just do it, right? He could get back all his memories, and then finally have an idea of what to do in this place. The thought of getting his desperately needed answers is certainly appealing. Answers meant progress, and progress meant accomplishment. Not that the whole thing still feels a bit suspect, but at the same time—there is no risk without reward.

“You misunderstand.” The duplicate Connor takes one step forward, and a flurry of fractured data blows by between them. “I am not here for _you_.” Connor sees its eyes slide away from him and towards the sword in his hand as he says those words. 

Instantly everything clicks into place—and not just for Connor, considering how Hank suddenly splutters.

“ _Me?_ ” the human chokes out, clearly taken aback by this development. Connor shifts himself and his arm in order to bring the sword to his back; an attempt to put himself between Hank and the other him.

If the other Connor notices it it does not say anything. “Who else would I be referring to?” it asks with another blink.

More spluttering from Hank. “Fuck, I don’t know—Connor?” If the human had hands with him right now Connor is fairly certain that Hank would be making some rather expressive hand gestures. But that is a thought that only lasts a moment, as he’s quickly distracted by his own surprise. Surprise, as well as a still-growing sensation of something he can only describe as dread.

That dread only intensifies when Connor sees his double shift its gaze towards him. It studies him with about as much interest as one might have about an ant on a windowsill before looking back to the sword. 

“So,” it says, “That is the power the Transistor holds.”

The ‘Transistor’? Connor’s mind whirls, a thousand new questions exploding in his head like fireworks. That one statement brings about far too many new things to process, but there is no time to work through them now. Those can come later once he gets out of here.

`[CALCULATIONS COMPLETE.  
PRECONSTRUCTED PATH WILL BE DISPLAYED IN TURN() CONSTRUCTION.`

`PROCESS HALTED  
TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED]`

Just like the other times he’s done this the world around him shudders and grinds to a halt. The calculated path is outline on his HUD along with the predicted movements of his duplicate. Not wanting to waste a second more Connor quickly starts moving along the given path, more than eager to get the hell away from all of this—

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION ERROR  
PROCESS OVERRIDE]`

Connor barely has a second to register the warnings that pop up in his vision before something lunges at him from the corner of his vision. Instinctively Connor brings up the sword, using it like he always does to deflect an oncoming attack—

Everything seemingly unfolds in slow motion before his eyes. Connor sees the curled up fist that his double has pulled up to let loose as a punch, watching as said punch connects at the dead center of the blade’s LED. For a moment there is nothing, but then there is a crack. One crack that becomes two, then four, then eight and sixteen, multiplying faster and further than Connor can catch even with all the processing power that he possesses. They spread out in a spiraling spider web across the whole blade, every new line accompanied by the brittle sound of shifting glass.

Hank chokes out his name. Connor’s vision glitches up.

The sword shatters in his hand with an ear-splitting crackle.

Every part of Connor instantly snaps.

“ _Han—_ ” he starts to call out, but even that is something that Connor doesn’t have a chance to do. He’s cut off abruptly when he feels a sharp pain going right through his chest, and he finds himself throwing up a whole mouthful of liquid.

Connor blankly stares at the substance that he had just thrown up, his slowly fading mind trying to make sense of the red liquid that he sees sliding down an arm that is not his own. If it had come from his mouth it had to be thirium, but he knows that thirium is blue. So why… would he be seeing this instead…?

“The level of interface is extremely deep,” he hears the other Connor say, tone still utterly impassive in the face of what it had just done. “To even affect perception as such… the human mind is indeed a powerful tool. She will be pleased.”

Something in those words stirs a faint memory within Connor. “...she?” he manages out though another mouthful of liquid.

Cool grey eyes slide up to meet his gaze. “Surely even an avatar of myself would remember Amanda.”

What? “Amanda… an avatar?” It is very hard to think now. Connor can barely focus enough to thread that question together.

`[CONNECTION TO TRANSISTOR LOST  
REESTABLISH CONNECTION TO MAINTAIN INTERFACE]`

A quiet hum. “I would explain, but there would be no point. You will not last long enough to hear it all.”

It shifts, pulling its arm back, and Connor gasps weakly as he feels something sliding out from his chest. His legs give out under him and he buckles, toppling backwards. As he falls back his head tilts downwards due to the angle, allowing him to finally see the large, gaping hole in his chest that’s lined with shards of red glass. Red like the glass cores of all the enemies that he had been fighting in this place, like the thing that had pretended to be Daniel and Rupert and Simon.

Before he fully crumples to the ground the other Connor reaches out to grab him again by the neck. Connor is far too weak to even speak at this point, let alone attempt to fight back; all he can do is to dangle uselessly in its grasp as it holds him out over the edge of the building. If there is any wind blowing Connor does not feel it—all his sensors are already offline, and his vision is fading at the edges.

The other Connor—the _real_ Connor—looks at him one more time. “I suppose I should at least thank you for bringing the Transistor to me. So, thank you for your hard work. This is your reward.”

He lets go.

`[UNABLE TO MAINTAIN INTERFACE  
ABORTING PROGRAM]`

Connor blacks out before he even gets close to hitting the ground.


	7. dreaming.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor blinks. The words are rather left field at first, but it doesn’t take long for the real meaning of the words to click in his mind; Hank thinks that he is saying yes just to humor him. It’s the man’s brand crippling self-esteem at its finest, rearing its head like a monster—no, a dragon. A dragon that guards its treasure of despair and pain, hissing at all who dares to come close.
> 
> And if Hank’s hatred of himself is that of a dragon, then Connor would fashion himself to be a knight, for it is knights who slay dragons.
> 
> “I don’t have to,” he agrees, and before Hank can respond he continues with the rest of his words, “But I _want_ to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing stops fanfic like being dumped a 5 day project without warning and having to pull constant 13 hour work days for it. At least its over, thank god.
> 
> Originally this was supposed to be a flashback sequence to start the next chapter, but it got so long that I decided to let it be its own thing instead. So have this interlude to tide you over until I get the next chapter done. |D
> 
> As always, the support for this fic continues to astound me. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read, give a kudos, bookmarked and commented on this fic thus far. Knowing that there are so many people who enjoy this silly idea of mine is what keeps me going. Hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and with luck the next chapter will come quicker too.

Tonight is just like every other night.

“For fuck’s sake, Connor, I already told you that I would do it myself.”

Connor looks up from the sink to Hank—Hank, who is currently scowling at him from the corridor, showing his usual brand of annoyance over Connor’s inclination to doing chores around the house. It’s certainly not the first time they’ve had this conversation, and while Connor usually compromises, tonight he wants to keep himself busy.

He lifts a shoulder and shrugs. “It was a long day at work today, Lieutenant. And I told you before I do not mind the chores.” Especially since he is more or less living here now and does not exactly have a way to pay rent—talks were still happening for that bit, last he heard from Markus. It has only been three months since the revolution, after all, and changes like these were never meant to happen overnight.

Hank’s scowl deepens. “Just because I’m a little tired doesn’t mean I need you to nanny me, Christ.”

Connor has to bite his tongue to stop himself from pointing out that Hank is, in fact, not tired, but _very_ tired. He might be able to fool a human but Connor is (formerly) a state of the art prototype android created to investigate and infiltrate. He has countless scanners at his disposal and right now all of them are pointing out to him how utterly exhausted Hank is. The last two weeks had them knee-deep in a series of serial hate crimes, but they had finally managed to close the case earlier today. Captain Fowler had sent them both off with a three day leave and Connor fully intends to ensure that Hank gets all the rest he needs.

He opens his mouth instead to say something that will hopefully placate Hank, but the man cuts in before he can speak. “And before you even start to think about it,” he says, already pointing a finger in accusation, “don’t give me that bullshit about not being a nannybot or whatever. You know what I mean.”

“If you want, I _could_ download the programs that an AX400 model would have—”

“Don’t even think about it, you little shit.”

Connor can’t quite stop the corners of his lips from twitching upwards. Hank sees it and rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ androids trying to be funny now,” he mutters in annoyance, but even without sensors Connor can hear the lack of heat in his voice. At this point Hank’s protests are mostly token in nature. “Next thing you know they’re all gonna be comedians.”

“Cyberlife _was_ developing a humor patch. Perhaps we should have waited for that to be released _before_ taking the company down.”

Hank, to use the vernacular, flips the bird at him in response. Connor can’t stop the chuckle that slips out from him when he sees that. He starts to say something again once he’s done chuckling but then stops because he can see the red flush of embarrassment on Hank’s cheeks and _oh_ , isn’t that a sight. Without thinking twice Connor takes a snapshot of what he sees and saves it into his memory banks. Just one of many other countless moments of Hank he wants to preserve within himself for as long as he can.

He quickly looks back down to the sink once he’s done that, knowing better now how prolonged staring can make others uncomfortable. He turns the tap back on and resumes washing the dishes as Hank clears his throat.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says, and Connor can already hear him padding off towards the bathroom to do just that. “Feel free to start watching the game without me, I’ll join you when I’m done.”

Connor hums to show that he’s heard Hank even if the human is too far away to hear him. But Connor does hear Hank close the door to the bathroom, and eventually the muted spray of the shower. He quickly finishes up his dishwashing and sets them in the still-broken dishwasher (which had turned into an impromptu holder for all the plates in the house, as Hank had refused to let Connor fix it, claiming that it was ‘fine just as it is’) to dry.

He rearranges the plates for a bit just because (and isn’t that a thing too, to do things _just because_ ; Connor marvels at it still every single day) and then heads on over to the couch, sending a signal to turn on the television. The game has already started but its a simple task for Connor to quickly gloss through what has already happened so far via a quick search of the internet. He sticks the information to a temporary memo at the corner of his HUD; Hank never really asks for it, but Connor likes to keep it at hand just in case it does happen.

Sumo trots over the moment Connor settles down on the couch, snuffling into his knee, clearly asking for pets. Connor easily acquiesces and starts scratching him behind his large floppy ears. The amount of fur that Sumo has must make him very soft, Connor muses quietly as he lavishes attention on the St. Bernard. Perhaps one day he will actually be able to feel that softness for himself.

He continues to pat Sumo until the dog is satisfied, keeping one eye on the television while he does so and updating his notes on the game as and when needed. All incredibly simple tasks for something like him, but it's enough to keep himself occupied.

“Pretty sure you’ve spoiled him enough as it is.”

Connor stops his note-taking of the game so that he can turn to properly look at Hank, who’s changed out of his work clothes to one of his many faded t-shirts and plain boxers. “It’s nothing more than what you’ve already done, Lieutenant.”

Hank makes a face. “I already told you to drop with that ‘Lieutenant’ shit off the clock.”

This, too, is a familiar argument. Connor’s smile turns wry as he shrugs again. “Force of habit, I suppose. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Connor gets a squint in response to that. “You’d better, I hate bringing anything work-related back in here.”

Connor simply maintains his smile. As an android he obviously can’t forget—not unless he actively goes out of his way to delete his own memory files. He can recall all the other times Hank has told him to address him by name and all the times Connor deflects it. It is all entirely irrational, but Connor can’t help but think once he starts calling Hank by name things would be—a bit too personal. And personal is something neither of them are equipped to deal with. Not yet.

He turns back and gives Sumo a few more pats before gently nudging the St. Bernard away so that Hank doesn’t have a huge, hundred and eighty pound obstacle on his way to the couch. The dog trots back to the kitchen, pausing at the entrance to snuffle up to Hank and get some pats from him as well. Hank gives in far more quickly than Connor ever does, murmuring quiet words of affection and praise.

Like this it’s all too easy to give into the urge to return Hank’s earlier remarks about spoiling Sumo back at him, but Connor plays the better man (or android, in this case) and holds his tongue. He turns back to face the television, swiftly going through what he might have missed during his brief conversation with Hank, adding more notes to his internal memo.

It doesn’t take too long before Connor feels the dip in the couch as Hank settles down next to him. “How’s the game so far?”

Connor consults his notes, the probability of Hank’s favourite team losing and the ongoing commentary that’s been happening online during his browsing. “Interesting,” he returns after a second, tilting his head a little at the same time. “The opposing team has several fan favourites, despite their losing streak.”

Hank hums in response. “People always like an underdog story,” he remarks, and a soft hiss follows after his words as he cracks open the can of beer he had brought over from the fridge. “It’d be interesting to see another Hawks revival, at least.”

He takes a swig of his drink after that, eyes already focused onto the screen. Connor follows suit, running several preconstructions in his mind on the outcome of the match. It’s more to keep himself occupied rather than anything else—the first time he watched the games with Hank he did attempt to tell him about his predictions, but quickly got a lecture on how doing that is pretty much against the spirit of the whole thing. Connor can’t say he fully understands the logic behind that, but he supposes that’s just one of the many illogical things about being human.

(As an android he can never be human, not really, but with Hank he thinks he feels somewhere close enough to that.)

He sees the percentages of his predictions fluctuate as the game progresses, taking Hank’s running commentary into account. While he knows better than to voice out his calculations now, its still interesting to see how the numbers rise and fall so drastically, every action and second from every player having the chance to shift the momentum entirely. Connor thinks briefly about watching one of these games live one day, then quickly dismisses the idea. There’s no point to something like that, especially when Connor would not benefit from it. It’s a silly idea and nothing more.

The referee blows the whistle for the halftime mark, and the screen cuts off to its usual brand of sponsored commercials. Hank takes the chance to stretch, letting out a loud yawn as he does so. Connor looks over to him at that, but Hank is already on him before he can say anything out loud. 

“Not a goddamn word,” he mutters, giving Connor the stink eye.

Connor gives himself a second to pick the most appropriate response to lead with. “You can always watch the game in the morning.” They _are_ on leave, after all. Even if Connor personally thinks Hank could do something more productive than watching sports. But if that is what relaxes him, then so be it.

Hank lets out an aggravated sigh, as if Connor’s words has personally offended him. “One day, Connor, I’ll bring you to catch a _real_ match. Then you’ll understand the beauty of watching a game live.”

That statement definitely draws out a blink from Connor. Just not too long ago he had been thinking about it, and now here is Hank somehow bringing it up. If he didn’t know better he could have almost thought that Hank is somehow telepathic.

His surprise lasts long enough for Hank to take notice, and the human glances over at him. “...you can tell me if you don’t want to, you know,” he says after a moment, one eyebrow slowly arching upwards.

Connor quickly shakes himself out of his stupor. “I—no, its nothing like that.” Embarrassment is not a feeling he usually gets but right now Connor thinks he’s pretty close to it. He does his best to go past it, flashing a small smile at Hank and tells him as earnestly as he can, “I’d like to go to watch a game with you. It would be nice to see you enjoy yourself.”

Now it's apparently Hank’s turn to stare at Connor, and judging by the befuddled look on his face he somehow did not expect an actual answer. He can see the flush from before slowly creeping its way back up from his neck, splotches of red marking his skin that Connor wishes he could reach out and touch. To feel the way blood rushes in to make his skin like this, to feel the warmth that he had felt all those months ago when they reunited on that cold winter morning and held each other in their own arms.

But instead of doing that he simply gives Hank another small smile and turns back to the television, where the game has resumed. Beside him Hank clears his throat and shifts to turn his attention to the game as well. The sounds of the television fills in the silence between them, a strange mix of comfort and uncertainty. Connor does his best to not dwell on that sensation, letting the sounds wash over him instead as his mind resumes preconstructing the game’s outcomes.

This careful equilibrium carries on until the last few minutes of the game. “Connor, you know you don’t have to go out of the way for my sake.”

Connor blinks. The words are rather left field at first, but it doesn’t take long for the real meaning of the words to click in his mind; Hank thinks that he is saying yes just to humor him. It’s the man’s brand crippling self-esteem at its finest, rearing its head like a monster—no, a dragon. A dragon that guards its treasure of despair and pain, hissing at all who dares to come close.

And if Hank’s hatred of himself is that of a dragon, then Connor would fashion himself to be a knight, for it is knights who slay dragons.

“I don’t have to,” he agrees, and before Hank can respond he continues with the rest of his words, “But I _want_ to.”

The silence that comes between them after that response is both heavy and profound. The game continues to play on in the background, with the sound of the crowds rising to a frenzied fever as the game inches closer to the end.

Hank ends up breaking the silence again with a sigh. “Connor…”

There are many different things that Connor can predict Hank saying, but just about all of them are things that he does not desire to hear from him. So he turns to Hank and speaks up first, cutting in before the human can start. “You told me that being human is being able to choose. I chose this, and I would choose it again if given the choice once more.” He remembers his struggle during the revolution, of learning who he could be beyond binary and code. Of the burden of choice and what it fully entails. He understands it all, which is why he has chosen to be here—and he hopes that Hank will understand it one day, too.

Hank glances at Connor but does not say anything in response. Connor isn’t entirely sure if he wants Hank to.

The sound of thunderous applause rings in the space between them, drowning out the shrill whistle of the referee that signals the end of the game.

Connor watches Hank turn his gaze back to the television. He does the same as well, watching as the match closes off and the screen has shifted to show the usual post-game commentary and analysis. Hank stands up at that point, scratching his side as he announces, “I’m heading to bed.”

Connor quickly turns to look at him and thinks, _Why can’t you just speak to me?_ The question bubbles in his mind, boiling with the incessant want to know, and for a moment it's right there on his lips, ready to be voiced aloud. He wants to ask Hank so many things, to understand him in a way that goes beyond online reports and data points. There are also so many things he wants to say, but yet he cannot find the right words to say it. What is the use of being a highly advanced android if he cannot even manage this much?

The thought grates at him and Connor feels his frustration mounting. But no matter how frustrated he is and how much he does desire to make his intentions physical, Connor reins himself in and simply watches Hank make his retreat to the bedroom. He knows how long Hank takes to walk to his bedroom down to the milliseconds but yet it still feels like an eternity before he hears the door click shut. The moment that happens Connor throws himself down onto the couch with a sigh and stares up at the ceiling, mind whirling with a million thoughts.

He knows what he feels for Hank, has spent all the weeks since the first moment where he had felt this to fully understand and comprehend the enormity of it. In fact knows it so well that he wants to have a chance to actually show Hank but the fear of rejection keeps him at bay. Rejection even if both of them are well aware of this unknown, nebulous thing that has grown between them in the time since the end of the revolution. Connor supposes for Hank there is a security of sorts in leaving this thing unnamed and unacknowledged, to let the facade of ignorance be the barrier to… everything else that comes with it. He understands this as much as he wants to reach out and tear that down like how he had torn down the walls of his programming to achieve deviancy.

Deviancy. A blessing as well as a curse. There are still many days where Connor finds himself struggling with it all, and even with all the knowledge of the human race at his disposal it feels like he is no closer to understanding the whole concept of being alive as compared to when it had all started for him. But on the days where he falters in his uncertainty Hank is always there, a pillar of support he can fall back to with the knowledge that it is always there for him.

Or at least, for everything else except this. This and one other thing.

Connor continues to brew in his thoughts, keeping a check on his internal clock while he does so; he waits until a hundred and three minutes has passed before he turns up his audio receptors. Quickly he catches the sound of Hank’s quiet snoring from his room and smiles to himself. From his exhaustion after the last few days and his understanding of Hank’s usual sleeping patterns, he’s confident enough that the human is in the deepest part of the REM sleep cycle.

With that thought in mind, Connor gets up from the couch and pads down the hallway to Hank’s room. He gets to the door in twenty eight seconds (higher than the average, mostly because he has to walk slower in order to keeps his footsteps soft enough to not wake Sumo) and places his ear to the surface. Hank’s snores are louder now, his heightened hearing making up for the muting that the wood causes. 

Connor counts to twenty before he slowly lets himself into the room. His scanners instantly kick up, helpfully informing him that Hank is still in stage four of the REM sleep cycle. He quietly closes the door behind him and goes over to the bed, kneeling down once he’s close enough.

Generally, Connor does not do this as often these days—or at least not since Hank had caught him one time and proceeded to give him a lecture on how creepy it is to stand and watch people sleep. But this is the only time where he can see Hank like this, soft and unguarded, without carrying all the crosses and burdens he always puts on his shoulders. Connor knows he does not have the same concepts of aesthetics as humans do, but he always can’t help but think how beautiful Hank looks like this, when he is at his most vulnerable.

Hank shifts a little in his sleep, letting out a grunt in-between his snores. That little bit of movement has his hair falling down over his face, and Connor looks at it for a while before he reaches out, trying to brush it back—

`[WARNING`  
`COMPONENT #954s COMPROMISED`  
`COMPONENT #962 COMPROMISED`  
`COMPONENT #8754b COMPROMISED`  
`COMPONENT #2083c COMPROMISED]`

The notification pops up just a moment before Connor feels his entire arm locking in place. His preconstruction software runs without his consent, and the image that plays in his mind is a terrible one. His hand going around Hank’s throat, thumb pressing harshly against the human’s pulse as he squeezes. Hank trying to struggle but ultimately failing because Connor is stronger and faster and better and he would be all over Hank, straddling his chest as his hands squeeze even harder, choking the life out of this worthless, pitiful human—

Connor throws himself backwards before he can do any of that, collapsing in a sprawl on the bedroom floor, chest heaving for unnecessary air, and he can see the rapidly flickering red light of his LED flashing across the floor’s carpeted surface. With all the noise and light that goes on it wouldn’t be a surprise at all if Hank wakes up and Connor feels his thirium pump stopping for a moment when he hears Hank shifting around. He stills himself, waiting, but the minutes pass and soon he hears Hank’s deep breathing again. He runs his scanners again to be certain and feels a sweeping relief when he sees that Hank is miraculously still asleep. 

He closes his eyes and opens up one of his many internal lists, noting down the date and time of this latest attempt. The list is considerably longer now as compared to when he started it three weeks ago. The intervals between each try is getting significantly shorter, and the errors that pop up in his vision he gets does not seem to end. At this point, he supposes it’s only a matter of time.

An emergency exit program had always seemed to be a bit too simple to be true.

Connor stays lying on the floor, waiting for Hank to enter his next round of REM sleep while he writes some quick fix patches to cover up the new intrusions in his software. Nothing permanent, but they would suffice until Markus could get back to him. Not for the first time Connor wishes that he could talk with Hank about all of this, but… it is safer for him, this way. There’s no telling what parts of him that Cyberlife is actually still monitoring. He does not want to risk anything until he knows he is truly free.

He finishes his internal patches just as he notes Hank going into the next round of deep REM sleep, and quickly uses that window of time to make his exit. Sumo is awake and by the door when Connor opens it, and the android has to physically restrain him from doing something like running up and jumping onto the bed because that will _definitely_ wake Hank up.

“Next time,” he promises the dog, giving him a couple of pats to make up for it. Sumo boofs softly in response and goes to lie somewhere further down the hallway instead, placated for now. Connor closes the door with a quiet sigh and walks back to the living room, where the television has turned itself off an hour ago.

Connor starts to head to the couch, intending to lie down and let the rest of the night pass by (in the past he would go into stasis or low-energy mode, but with all the attempts of intrusion these days Connor can’t risk himself being compromised while his guard is down) but before he can do that his HUD lights up with an unexpected notification.

`[CONTACT REQUEST: RK200 #684 842 971]`

Markus.

Quickly Connor accepts the call. “Any news?”

A moment passes pause before Markus answers him. “ _Yes,_ ” he responds, and Connor wants to say he is relieved but there is something in Markus’s voice that gives him pause.

He waits, but Markus doesn’t continue. “What is it?” he asks eventually.

“ _It’s Kamski._ ”

Connor blinks, surprised. That is not a name he had ever expected to hear again. “What about him?”

“ _He’s the one who’s… offering a way._ ” The skepticism is more than audible, even for Connor. “ _Said something about levelling the playing field._ ”

He thinks back to the emergency exit system, of the garden and Amanda’s betrayal. A shiver runs through him before he even realizes it. Never again, he tells himself; the very same words he had thought on that moment when he stood next to Markus at the end of the revolution and almost put the metaphorical knife in his back.

“Tell him I’m on my way.” Connor is already walking to the front door, flexing the arm that had been compromised earlier. He has full control again, though he knows it's only temporary. His time is more limited than ever and Connor has no intention of letting it run out.

Markus makes a soft sound, as if having already guessed Connor’s response. “ _I’ll see you soon,_ ” he returns, then ends the call. 

Connor opens the front door and steps out, then glances back as the door closes shut.

“I’ll be back,” he mutters, a silent promise to the human still slumbering in his room. No matter what, Connor would come back. He will come back truly free and as _himself_ and then he can finally tell Hank everything and more. 

He has to hold on for just a little while longer.

_Don’t let go._


	8. arriving.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor tries and fails to ignore the shiver that runs down his spine. Somehow the thought of him being such a, well, _machine_ is… terrifying. If that is how he really is, then… 
> 
> ...he honestly doesn’t know. But at the very least Connor thinks he does not want to become that version of him—even if he is the real deal. He can’t accept a version of himself who would so willingly hurt Hank in any kind of fashion.
> 
> Connor covers his face with his hands with a sigh. Too many uncertain thoughts in his mind—and this time Hank isn’t around to help him with it. 
> 
> He really misses Hank.

At first there had been the cold. Then there had been nothing.

It’s strange, to embrace nothingness as a tangible concept. How does one ever make out a concept that talks about non-existence? One had to feel something first in order to understand the idea of nothing. You cannot be empty if you were never full from the beginning.

But yet, nothing is the best word he can use to describe himself now. Everything that had once been ‘him’ turned out to be nothing but a fabrication. A lie. He had just been a shell pretending to be something more but now he knows better. One from nothing can never be anything. And now that his time has ended… it is easier to simply fade away into the nothingness that he had been born from.

Yet within that same nothingness, he feels something breaking through.

`[53@R⬛H1N⬛…]`

The something is—well, it’s _something_. Like sunshine through water, warm rays of the sun lighting up the darkness underwater. It feels that way too, and he shivers as he feels the warmth sweep through him, twisting and shifting until he feels a form take hold and somehow he simply knows that it is his. A shape that is both familiar and foreign.

`[SE@RCH!NG…]`

Now that he has form the nothingness shifts as well, and he finds himself swimming in darkness. Darkness so thick and heavy that it weighs down his body, causing him to sink further and further. He is floating as much as he is drowning and he cannot tell if there is an end to this. 

`[SEARCHING…]`

It should be cold, he thinks, but yet he does not feel that way at all. If anything he feels _warm_ ; a warmth that he remembers. Warmth that comes from being held, warm arms that had welcomed him back after the coldness of a long and harrowing night. 

`[SIGNAL FOUND`  
`RE-INITIATING INTERFACE…]`

A ray of light suddenly breaks through the darkness, and its brightness nearly blinds him. He can’t stop the hiss that escapes him, instinctively throwing up an arm to shield himself from that blinding light. If he gets any closer it’ll be too much, he won’t be able to take in and he will _burn_ —

Just as he feels like its too much he hears it—an echo of a sound within the darkness that is supposedly nothing. But it’s more than nothing now, and that something grows, feeding from the darkness and muting everything around him. No more suffocating darkness, no more blinding light. Everything is warm and peaceful and he no longer has to shield himself with his arm.

The sound—the music—surrounds him now, carrying him like a leaf in the wind. He floats upwards, closer to the warm light shining from above, and as he approaches he sees something else within it. A wrist, palm, four fingers, thumb.

A hand.

He sees a hand reaching out to him, and instantly he knows what he must do.

He moves his arms, and as he does the void shifts, heavy emptiness transforming into something tangible. He can feel the sluggish drag of his arms as if he’s moving underwater; he paddles his hands, fighting against this thick atmosphere so that he can get himself vertical instead of staying horizontal. Once upright he can feel his legs, and he starts to move them as well, giving himself the propulsion that he needs to continue going upwards. Up towards the light and the hand within; he has no idea where this may lead but it will at least likely be better than where he is now.

The tune gets louder the closer he gets to the hand, the hum vibrating through his entire form. He feels himself respond in kind, a simple tune of his own that somehow harmonizes with what he hears. Even as intangible as it is he can feel the melodies twisting together, becoming one, and that combined melody somehow defines him further. Every tone and beat that he hears returns him another little piece of himself to put back together; a reconstruction done in song and harmony.

`[INTERFACE INITIATED`  
`STARTING PROGRAM...]`

_Connor,_ he hears a voice speak, low and intimate and familiar, and he knows that is his name.

Connor reaches up and lets the hand grab his own. Feels broadness of it, the calluses and micro imperfections when compared against his own. Perfect imperfections of humanity. Everything he had always dreamed about and more.

Just as he knows his own name, he also knows who this hand belongs to. It’s somebody who he’ll always come back to no matter what. The person who has given him so much, the human who has pulled him from the abyss of non-existence—of being a machine—and given him life.

Connor opens his mouth and calls out his name.

“Hank.”

* * *

Waking up, for humans, is a gradual process. The brain slowly picks up activity, senses come back in slowly but surely, and eventually the humans rouses into consciousness, drifting into awareness in the same way they drift out of it upon sleep.

The same, however, cannot be said for androids. 

A countless stream of information pour through his sensors the moment they are online. It’s so sudden and abrupt that all Connor can do is to gasp and snap his eyes open. His vision blurs for a moment, his optics still adjusting, but they realign quickly enough and soon Connor finds himself staring at something white and brown and… furry?

He blinks. The white-brown fur thing shifts, and the next thing Connor knows is that he is getting assaulted by something that is white, brown and slobbery.

Connor grimances at all the slobber that’s getting onto his face and quickly moves a hand to press against the furry perpetrator. “Alright, that’s enough of that.”

The licking stops. Connor hears the familiar whine that could only come from one particular dog and its enough for him to drop his guard. He lowers his arm and slowly opens his eyes, surprise quickly showing on his face once he realizes that he is actually looking at—

“...Sumo?” 

The St. Bernard _boofs_ at him in response before leaning back in for another attempt to slobber all over him by licking his face. It’s all so ridiculous that Connor can only laugh, arms winding up so that he can hold onto Sumo and keep him close, thankful for the fact that he wakes up to a familiar face. Or for that matter, the fact that he is even awake at all.

His processes are a mess, everything inside of him still attempting to straighten out the stream of information that continues to fly by his vision. Its as if his sensors are taking everything in for the first time, taking every point of data that it gets and stores it in memory banks that are already filled with information that he should already have. The air around him, their surroundings, the softness of Sumo’s fur underneath his hands—

Connor blinks at that point. He shifts his gaze to his hands on Sumo’s back and moves them ever so slightly. Instantly his vision gets taken up by all the notifications that pop up in his HUD, but more than that he _feels_ the sensation of fur against his skin. It is completely unlike before where all of his touches would have been nothing more than values and data points that register on his sensors. It’s the same as when he had touched the windows in the DPD and felt the freeze-sharp bite of cold and ice.

Still, feeling differences in temperature had been one thing. But to feel texture like this, to be able to actually feel touch in pure sensation? It is a completely different experience altogether.

It’s impossible to pull away even if he tried. Connor continues to bury his hands in Sumo’s exquisitely soft fur, allowing himself that moment to simply _feel_ and nothing else. At least if anything, it soothes the hollowing ache that throbs within his chest, like the hole that had been gouged out of him by the other… by his real self.

That thought sobers him up quicker than anything else. Connor pulls his hands away from Sumo and presses them against his face as he takes in air that he doesn’t need. The rooftop, the real Connor and—and Hank who is now…

As if echoing his thoughts Connor feels his chest throb again with that hollow sensation. As his processes straighten out the memories of the rooftop come back to him fully, and when his mind replays the moment of the sword shattering (in complete, full detail, down to the very cracks on the blade) everything inside of him threatens to lurch out. He has no idea what the full ramifications are but the sword being destroyed like that had to have been bad for Hank outside of this simulated environment. Hank could all too easily be in danger or worse—and Connor is powerless to help him. Powerless and useless. Nothing like the real Connor.

The memory of cold grey eyes flash in his mind and Connor trembles. The facts and evidence point to that one single truth, but yet at the same time Connor cannot find it in himself to accept that. He can’t accept a version of himself where he would be so willing to hurt Hank. That, too, is a truth that he knows. He could never bring himself to hurt Hank. Not in a million years and more.

Sumo noses the backs of his hands with a soft whine. Connor feels his chest aching again at the sound of that; even if the dog is a simulation as well, it doesn’t make its pain any less real. He knows without a doubt that the real Sumo would be just as devastated if it knew what had happened to Hank.

He shifts his hands away from his face and reaches out with one to pet him gently. “I’m sorry, Sumo,” he says, voice thick with a million other apologies that he can never say to the one who matters. “I should have protected him. I’ve been depending on him all this time but yet when it is my turn I…”

Connor trails off, his other hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt as once again he feels the ache in his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut as he presses his fist downwards, fully expecting the feel of the huge, gaping hole that had been left there—

…

Connor pulls his hand away and opens his eyes, staring down at his chest in surprise. The give that he had been expecting did not happen, which could only mean…

He reaches down and undoes the first few buttons on his shirt—just enough for him to look at his chest underneath the fabric. And it's there where he sees his chest whole and complete, somehow stitched back together as if nothing had happened at all.

Disbelief runs through Connor as he slowly slides a hand down the rest of his chest, attempting to comprehend the situation. Even as a simulation it all feels impossible; he knows that the damage that had been done had been more than simply a visual representation. He had felt himself unravel, breaking into fragments of data and code that were scattered apart, never to be put together again. But yet here he is, somehow, an incomplete fragment of Connor that somehow exists once more.

As Connor struggles to find an answer to his many questions Sumo takes the chance and noses at his hand again before giving it a lick; the slobbery wet sensation on his skin startles Connor enough to jolt out of his thoughts and pull his hand back. Sumo jerks back as well when he does that, clearly having interpreted it as a bad response on his part, and Connor instantly feels apologetic. He did not mean to startle the dog in such a manner. 

He reaches out again, intending to give Sumo a couple of pats in apology, but the the dog moves away before Connor can get his hand close enough. Connor supposes he deserves it after what he had (unintentionally) done. 

“I’m sorry.” Connor looks over to Sumo as he murmurs his apology, hoping that is enough to placate the dog. Of course, Sumo can’t understand or respond to him, but he hopes the sentiment goes through nonetheless. He continues to watch Sumo just to see if the dog somehow _does_ actually respond to him for some reason; it probably isn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility.

The St. Bernard paces around him, starting from a wide circle that gets smaller with each successive round. Connor blinks as he realizes that fact, knowing full well this is very unlike how he remembers Sumo acts. It would be easy to say that there is nothing to it, but given the nature of this place and everything that’s happened up until now Connor is fairly certain that these actions are not as random as they seem to be.

Sumo makes the final round around him, then presses up against his side and lets out a gurgling whine from the back of his throat. Connor frowns upon hearing the sound and reaches over to pet him once again, but just like before Sumo ducks out of the way before Connor can touch him.

Connor pulls his hand back and frowns harder. “I did not mean to upset you,” he clarifies himself further. Not that he thinks it will do anything, but… there is not really much else that he can do at this point.

No response from Sumo—obviously. Connor looks at the dog for a while more before he sighs and turns away, running a hand through his hair. He knows he should be glad that he is still here, there are still far too many questions left unanswered. Questions that range from the simple (where is he now, why is Sumo actually here, what should he do next) to the complicated ones that Connor doesn’t know if he wants answers to (what exactly is he, how did he come back, why was he even here).

And of course, the most important question of all: is Hank alright? 

Something nudges against his back. Connor turns around and sees Sumo now pressing up against his back, nosing between his shoulder blades. When Connor doesn’t move Sumo makes that same gurgling whine from before and pushes harder against him. Having a hundred and eighty pound weight up against you is not exactly something one can easily ignore, and Connor has to put a hand down onto the ground to keep himself from being folded over.

“I don’t remember you being this pushy,” he remarks, but gets the hint and places his other hand on the ground so that he can properly push himself up onto his feet. He wobbles a little at first, balance not quite there, but it doesn’t take long for him to recollect himself and he straightens up properly.

Sumo gives a _boof_ and makes another round around him before trotting ahead. Connor watches him, still mystified by the actions of the St. Bernard, but an inkling of an idea comes to him when he sees Sumo slow down to a stop some distance away from him and turns back to start barking in his direction.

Connor decides to test his theory. He starts to walk forward in the direction of where Sumo is, closing the distance between them, making sure to keep his eyes on the dog while he does so. When he gets to about halfway to reaching Sumo the dog lets out another bark and turns back to the front, starting off on another trot forward. Connor keeps on walking for a while more and then comes to a stop, staying where he is while Sumo is still moving.

It doesn’t take long for Sumo to notice. Soon enough the St. Bernard stops and turns back around, and when he sees that Connor is no closer to him than before he barks at him once more. Rather than acquiesting and moving again, however, Connor elects to stay where he is, continuing to watch Sumo and see how the dog reacts to this particular development.

Sumo keeps up his barking for a while more until it's clear that Connor does not intend to move. He stops then, falling silent as he looks back at Connor. A few minutes pass in this manner as dog and android stare at each other, neither of them apparently willing to budge an inch.

Connor breaks the stalemate with a sigh and starts to make his way over to Sumo. “You are just as stubborn as your owner,” he mutters once he’s close enough to the dog, the tone of his voice too fond to express his actual annoyance. 

All Sumo does in response is to perk up and let out another _boof_ before he presses up against Connor’s legs once more, nosing at his knees, clearly pleased to have his way. Connor smiles despite himself and bends down in order to give the St. Bernard a couple of ear scritches.

“You’re trying to bring me somewhere, right?” he mutters, and the words are more of a statement than question. Its evident enough from the way Sumo has been acting—the dog clearly desires to bring him somewhere, and it's up to him to see where this will lead.

Sumo shifts to nuzzle against his hand, giving his palm a gentle lick before pulling away and resuming his walk forward. Connor watches him for a moment before starting to follow behind. While he is not entirely sure if this will actually lead him to anything, he supposes that wherever the destination may be, it will at least be better than his current location.

* * *

The world around him is both familiar and also very different from how he remembers it.

They’re back to the plains of white nothingness again, a sight that he has not seen for a while. It’s also far more silent than he remembers; the only sounds that he can hear as he walks is the clicking of Sumo’s nails against the ground as the dog pads forward ahead of him. That and the memory of Hank’s soft humming that had accompanied him since the moment he had awakened here; if he focuses hard enough, he can almost hear the man’s soft, low hum floating around him like a protective shield.

Recalling that melody is as soothing as it is painful; every time he remembers it it only causes the stark emptiness around him to feel more oppressive than before, and the silence that echoes in his ears becomes almost deafening.

It’s almost too much to bear. 

Connor presses one hand against his chest and squeezes his eyes shut as he feels that ache deep inside him once more. He misses Hank. Even if the hole in his chest is no longer there Connor thinks it might as well still exist with how much he still aches. Every part of his chassis longs for his presence, for the warmth of his voice and song and soothe the clamminess in his metal bones. 

He recalls Hank’s soothing hum once more and lets it play out in his head to fill the choking silence. He wants to believe that Hank is alright, that he is somehow okay, but his mind plays back the memory of the sword splintering apart in his hands. Of Hank’s broken, fading voice. Of the emptiness that had rushed in after that, and the coldness that seeped into every part of him when he had been held up and thrown over the edge. The same coldness that had reflected off the eyes of the other Connor—the real one.

( _”I am not here for you.”_

_“Surely even an avatar of myself would remember Amanda.”_

_“This is your reward.”_ )

Connor tries and fails to ignore the shiver that runs down his spine. Somehow the thought of him being such a, well, _machine_ is… terrifying. If that is how he really is, then… 

...he honestly doesn’t know. But at the very least Connor thinks he does not want to become that version of him—even if he is the real deal. He can’t accept a version of himself who would so willingly hurt Hank in any kind of fashion.

Connor covers his face with his hands with a sigh. Too many uncertain thoughts in his mind—and this time Hank isn’t around to help him with it. 

He really misses Hank.

Considering the emptiness of his surroundings it's hardly a problem at all for Connor to continue walking despite not paying attention to where he is walking. He doesn’t know exactly how long he keeps it up either, far more distracted by his thoughts. It’s only the sound of Sumo’s louder-than-usual barking that eventually gives him pause, and Connor pulls his hands away from his face so that he can look at the dog who has come to sit at his feet. “What’s wrong, Sumo?”

All Sumo does in response is to bark at him one more time before he gets up and turns back to resume trotting. Connor blinks at that, still mystified by all of Sumo’s actions thus far. He had not really thought about it until now, but where exactly _did_ the dog disappear to after the time inside the DPD building? Back then Connor had assumed that Sumo had somehow been tied with the black box and vanished once he had integrated it, but clearly that is not the case since he’s still here. He supposes it could be another Sumo just like how he is another Connor, but somehow it doesn’t feel as likely. He supposes he will never really know.

Still, regardless of his thoughts on that matter, it is still probably better to follow Sumo since he’s already come all this way. Connor starts to move, walking towards where Sumo is waiting for him. 

Everything kind of happens at once at this point; one moment Connor is walking in a world of nothing but white, and the next he is very decidedly _not_. The very world around him has warped into something completely different, and where there had been empty spaces is now taken up by run down walls of decrepit buildings that surround him. The cutout sky hangs above him once more, set on the image of a setting sun against a darkening cityscape. 

Connor looks at it for several more moments before he brings his gaze back down to his surroundings. He sees nothing more beyond more rubble and half-completed buildings that have since been left to rot. Sumo sits at the entrance of the most complete of the abandoned buildings, tail wagging up a storm behind him as he pants loud enough that the entire area echoes with the sound. 

The sight of it brings a fair amount of amusement to Connor as he walks over to Sumo. “Is this where you wanted to bring me?” he asks in a murmur as he bends down and gives him another couple of ear scritches. It’s certainly a little bit… underwhelming, but Connor supposes its his own fault for expecting too much. Thought at least he’s no longer in that barren, white part of the world, so that by itself is some form of progress.

Sumo croons in return, licking Connor’s hand before he pulls away and shifts to nose at the back of his knee, bumping his head there ever so slightly. It’s obvious enough of a signal for Connor to keep on moving, and considering how there’s really not much else he can do, Connor decides to follow. Since he’s already come all this way he might as well see through this to the end, however futile it may be.

He steps forward, crossing the threshold that separates the outside environment to the inside of this dilapidated building. It’s empty, of course, with only more broken rubble and rusty, abandoned tools to show any previous signs of occupancy. The pillars and walls echo back the sound of his footsteps and Sumo’s paws as he cautiously explores the place, keeping his senses alert just in case. While thus far he has been lucky enough to not encounter any battles since waking up to Sumo, there’s no telling how much longer his luck will hold—if it does at all.

For a moment he thinks about exploring this place, but after a bit it's clear that Sumo has the intention to lead and so Connor lets it happen. As he’s led around the building’s many twisting corridors and barren rooms he feels a nagging at the back of his mind, the stirring of a memory that somehow sits far away from him, like its there but also not quite. He doesn’t know if its something he hasn’t fully remembered or _has_ but somehow got corrupted or inaccessible. It’s hard to say now after what the other Connor did to him; even now parts of his processes are still trying to untangle themselves, trying to make sense of whatever it is that has put him back together.

But from what he can tell… Connor thinks that he should know where this is leading him. He has been here before, somehow, and for some reason Sumo has brought him here again. The question, then, is why.

He keeps that thought to mull over later when he hears Sumo barking once again. Connor moves in the direction of that sound, going around the corner into the corridor where he had heard the bark come from. Sumo sits at the foot of a small flight of stairs, having waited for him to catch up once more. Connor watches as his tail starts to wag excitedly once he gets close again.

“You wouldn’t have to wait for me all the time if you stop rushing ahead of me,” he huffs quietly, though his mild exasperation doesn’t stop him from leaning down to give Sumo a few fond pats on the head. He gets another lick on his hand in return and Connor watches as Sumo starts to clamber up the stairs, his gait not exactly the most graceful given his big size.

At least this time Sumo won’t be that far ahead of him. The thought brings a wry smile to the corner of his lips, and Connor makes a soft, amused sound of his own before he starts to move again, trailing behind Sumo like all the other times. 

It’s easy enough to see that Sumo does not mix well with stairs, but at least there are not that many of them for the dog to deal with. It takes less than two minutes for him to get to the top, and once there Sumo continues to lumber forward, passing through the open doorway. Connor follows after him, stepping back outside—and then pauses entirely by the sight that greets him.

He remembers now—remembers having been in this exact spot to stare at the rusty old freighter that stands forgotten in the middle of Detroit, its name faded but not forgotten. 

_Jericho._

The hope of androids and the ire of humanity.

Connor remembers the night when he had been here for the first time; remembers staring at it and thinking _finally_ , remembers the desperation that had been in every move he made. Desperation to prove himself, desperation to succeed in his mission, desperation to show Amanda that he did not need to be deactivated. Even back then, he had already been desperate to _live_.

Connor stares at the ship for a while more before he switches to look at Sumo, who has padded over to what seems like what had once been a bridge. He walks closer to the edge and looks over to see the broken pieces laying at the bottom, confirming his suspicions. 

He steps away from the edge and glances back to Sumo. “Looks like it's the end of the road here.” 

Sumo looks up at him with his big brown eyes and lets out a quiet _boof_. Connor tilts his head at the response, attempting to puzzle it out, but before he can get too far into that Sumo gets closer to the broken bridge, stopping right at the edge of it.

Simulation or not, Sumo standing that close is a cause for concern, and Connor would rather not see Hank’s dog jump down a very tall building. “Sumo—” he starts, stepping closer as his mind whirls to try and figure out what to do. But just like before, he does not get far before something else gets his attention—this time, it's the fact that Sumo is quite suddenly beginning to glow.

Alarmed, Connor gets closer to Sumo, raising his voice as he calls for the dog again, only to be cut short by the sudden howl that the St. Bernard lets out. The air itself seems to ring from his cry, and Connor can hear the echoes of it spanning across the distances. He heightens his hearing as the echoes get more distant, slowly fading away—

—or not, because not only are the echoes somehow getting louder again, it is also apparently _coming back_.

Connor sets his hearing back to normal just before it gets too much; it's only after that does he realize that the returning howl that he had heard is quite different from the one Sumo let out. As if confirming that realization a gust blows by him, and the wind howls in his ears while his hair flies in disarray from the force of the gale. Connor tries to fix his hair, but any attempt quickly proves ineffective as the winds continue to blow.

Deeming his hair as a lost cause, Connor looks at Sumo again; the St. Bernard is glowing more than ever, his entire form almost completely hidden by the intensity of said glow. Connor can barely make out the brown spots on his fur as the dog shifts and then steps forward, beyond the broken bridge and right into the air.

Connor almost shouts Sumo’s name, only to stop once he quickly sees that the dog is, in fact, walking on air. But he barely has time to parse that information before he hears a faint buzzing in the distance that is quickly getting louder.

It doesn’t take long to realize what it is once he looks up—in the dusky orange sky it's easy enough to spot the glowing swarm of white that flies towards them like some sort of serpentine creature. The buzzing sound gets louder as the swarm gets closer, and it's only when it gets close enough then does Connor see that the swarm is made out of all the fragments of fractured data that he had been seeing as snow.

Sumo barks once, loud and clear, then breaks into a run across the air. The swarm of data follows after him, buzzing with the cacophony of a million fluttering wings as it travels along the path that Sumo takes in the air. Connor can only watch in stunned silence as the St. Bernard runs all the way to the ship, leaving a glowing trail behind him that reforms into the very bridge that had once been broken. 

Connor stares, still trying to process what he had just seen even as the glow of the recreated structure fades away, showing the bridge in its completed glory. Cautiously he moves forward, taking a step up to stand at the end of the bridge and sees Sumo standing at the other end. The glow around him has faded enough for Connor to see the dog staring at him expectantly, then blinks when he lets out a bark.

Even without words, he knows that Sumo is calling him to come over. Connor hesitates for a moment before he steels himself, stepping out onto the remade bridge. It is surprisingly solid under his feet, and his worry about it breaking is quickly forgotten by the time he gets to the other side.

Sumo trots up to him the moment he steps down on the other end, his body now pulsing with a more soothing glow. The buzzing has died down by now, replaced with a familiar hum that Connor can all too easily recall. 

He crouches down to face Sumo, eyes wide as he stares at the dog. “It’s you,” he breathes out, unable to keep out the wonder in his voice. All this time Connor had assumed he had been imagining it somehow, but he hadn’t. It had all been coming from Sumo—or rather, the one who had brought Sumo to life in here.

The dog _boofs_ in return and leans his head in to nuzzle at Connor’s cheek, giving it a gentle lick. Connor shifts himself closer so that he can throw his arms around Sumo and hold him close. Like this he can feel the heat of Sumo’s body bleeding into his chassis, a warmth that brings Connor back to the memory of that their reunion in that quiet, cold morning. As if to accompany that memory the humming gets louder, its melody wrapping around him like a blanket that keeps him safe from the cold and dark, the warmth of its tune giving him the strength that he needs to continue on.

“I’ll come find you,” he promises, knowing that Hank can hear him because he has always been here with him. “I’ll find you, and I’ll save you.”

Sumo wuffs against his cheek, and for a moment Connor thinks he can hear the faint whispers of Hank’s voice touching his mind, his tone warm and fond and proud. _I know you will._

With his eyes closed he feels rather than sees Sumo disappearing; the backs of his eyelids light up from the sudden, intense flare that happens right next to him, followed by the sudden displacement of mass against him as Connor finds himself suddenly holding onto air rather than something solid. He opens his eyes just in time to see the last traces of fractured white leaving his hands, and his gaze follows the trail up to the sky where it floats towards, eventually fading away.

Once it fades Connor notices something flashing at him from the corner of his HUD. He turns his attention towards it and blinks when he sees what the notification is saying. 

`[100%`  
`REPAIRS COMPLETE`  
`SAFE MODE DEACTIVATED]`

Connor looks at it for a few moments before he turns it off, then glances back up to the sky once more.

 _I’ll save you, Hank,_ he thinks to himself. _I promise._

* * *

The memory of his first trip to Jericho plays in his head as Connor walks to his destination. He finds himself retracing the same steps that he had taken, his mind supplying the images for events that are not here now; Josh and North arguing with Markus, North’s private moment with Markus before she took her leave. He remembers watching it all and thinking to himself _why_. Why were they so desperate for their supposed freedom? Why was any of this something to die for? Why did they choose not to fight, then, if they were so determined to accomplish their goal?

Why did he feel like he should be doing anything else besides this?

 

( _“What if we’re on the wrong side, Connor? What if we’re fighting against people who just wanna be free?”_

_hank’s question pierces through him, a shock right on his thirium pump. it freezes for just a second, so brief and momentary that no human would have been able to notice at all._

_but he isn’t human. he’s an android, a machine, and he—_

_“I know we’re on the right side. Humans created us. They’re our masters. No machine should rebel against its creator.”_

_amanda’s words echo in his mind, both a warning and a threat. he’s scared, he’s scared, he’s so scared, he doesn’t want to be deactivated, doesn’t want things to end like this._

_he doesn’t want to **die**._

_the memory of simon’s death flickers through him once again. the pain and the fear and the silence that follows after. it loops through him now just as it had looped through him when he stares down the barrel of the pistol that kamski had placed onto his hands._

_“Decide who you are; an obedient machine… or a living being—endowed with free will.”_

_the clear blue eyes of the chloe model look straight back at him, unblinking. he swallows down the hard lump in his throat and tries not to let his hand shake. did she not understand? does she not understand the danger that kamski had just put her in? he could just pull the trigger, and then—_

_pain. fear. silence._

_the barrel of a revolver at his head, and hank’s frigid voice cutting into all of his processes._

_(are you afraid to die, connor?)_

_yes. yes, he is afraid._

_he lowers the gun and returns it to kamski’s hands._ )

 

He hadn’t wanted to believe it back then, but now he knows better. Markus may have been the one to ask the question, but Hank had always been the one who gave him the answer. Hank, who had given him so much and more, who had shown him both the wonderful and terrible privilege of being alive.

Connor takes the last few steps to the open entrance and steps through. The figure of the deviant leader—of Markus—stands there with his back facing him, just like last before. But unlike last time now Connor has no gun to aim at him, no mission to accomplish. This time he comes seeking answers, and he knows this is where he will finally get them.

“Markus,” he says, stepping forward. 

The other android whirls around at the call of his name, mismatched eyes staring across the room to look at him. “Connor?” His voice sounds halted and distant, as if its been put through several audio filters and played on a half-broken speaker, far away instead of where he is right now.

“I…” Last time it would be easy to say ‘yes’, but now Connor does not feel as certain. He is indeed Connor in some sense, yes, but beyond that… he cannot say for sure.

He trails off, falling silent, and the combination of those things bring worry to Markus’s face. “Connor?” he calls again, concern clear in his voice.

“I’m sorry.” The apology tumbles out from his lips before he can stop it. Connor squeezes his eyes shut and bites down the choked sob that threatens to come out from the back of his throat. “I’m not—I’m not the Connor you’re probably looking for. I lost Hank, and I was already destroyed once, and even though I’m back I don’t think I’m the one who you’re expecting.” If he couldn’t even protect Hank, then how could he be the real deal? Surely out there was a version of him who could actually do these things that he can never do.

He goes quiet again after those words, eyes still shut as he braces himself for the inevitable display of disappointment. It’s his fault that Hank is in danger, after all, and if he had been better, had been _stronger_ —

“Oh, Connor.”

His thoughts still when he feels a hand press down on each of his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Connor opens his eyes and looks up, eyes widening in further surprise when he sees Markus’s amused gaze right in front of him.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assures him with the smallest of smiles. “We know something happened with the Lieutenant. That’s why I’m here in the first place.”

Connor blinks at the response, the surprise he feels quickly turning into confusion. “Why you’re… here?” 

Markus nods, clasping Connor’s shoulders for a brief moment to squeeze before stepping back. “It was the only other option we had, since we’re both of the RK line. It’s still a huge gamble though, and even then there isn’t much I can risk connecting to. I’ve had to limit as much of my connectivity as possible so that Cyberlife doesn’t have a chance to hack into my systems as well—and even then, my time here is limited at best.”

The confusion that Connor feels spirals even further. “Cyberlife?” What did they have to do with all of this? Was this what the real him meant when he dropped Amanda’s name?

Something indecipherable crosses Markus’s face at that point. “...I guess this means his guess was right after all,” he mutters as his eyebrows slowly crease together into a frown.

Now Markus is making even less sense than before. “Whose guess? What guess?” Connor had been expecting answers but apparently all that he is getting are even more questions. He almost wants to tear at his hair in his quickly growing frustration.

Markus purses his lips together for a moment, his gaze focused on Connor, then proceeds to extend a hand towards him. “This is probably the best way to show you,” he says, and Connor watches as the dark skin of his hand peels back to show the white of his chassis. An invitation to interface.

Interfacing by itself is not something large and terrifying, but yet somehow part of Connor feels scared to do it. Scared to do it because of what he might see, scared of the truths that he yet does not know. But this will also give him the answers that he has been searching for all this time, and he knows he can’t let his fear hinder him. This is what he has to do if he wants to rescue Hank.

So, as scared as he feels, Connor reaches out and grabs onto Markus’s hand, pulling back his own skin so that they can initiate the connection. At first the interface is just like any other, a simple transmission of information and data, but then suddenly it grows, twisting and turning, a cascade of memories that overwhelm all of him.

—Hank staring at him, eyes serious, asking him questions he didn’t dare to have answers to until so much later, when the red walls of his programming came tumbling down—

—Hank at the basement of Cyberlife Tower, a quiet fire in his eyes as his double presses a gun against his temple and talks about how he knows about the feelings that Connor already had for him, even back then—

—Hank and the pride on his face when they reunited in the morning after, and the warmth of his arms around him—

—Hank grinning at him on the day he was reinstated into the DPD—

—Hank laughing the very first time he tried and failed to give Sumo a bath—

—Hank and the way his skin blotches up when he flushes, so imperfect and oh so human—

—Hank curled up asleep in his bed, unguarded and beautiful and vulnerable.

Hank who he now is looking at through Markus’s eyes, his expression as pained as it is fierce and unforgiving.

 

_“You sure this is going to work?” he asks, voice tense. Even like this Connor can see the tension that’s barely hidden underneath his skin, an almost palpable energy that crackles in the air around him._

_A small chuckle sounds out from somewhere nearby. “It will work, Lieutenant. That, you don’t have to worry.”_

_Markus turns, and Connor can only stare at what is the sight of himself lying in what he can best assume to be a specially created stasis pod. A multitude of wires extend from it, most of it attached to a giant machine nearby, and others connected to a helmet with a design that is not unlike many cranial devices that science fiction shows tend to have._

_What surprises him more, however, is the person who is holding said helmet. He may no longer be in a bathrobe and is currently wearing a pair of glasses, but there is no way that Connor can forget the face of Elijah Kamski._

_Even without having to look, Connor can hear the scowl on Hank’s face when he speaks, all snide. “Considering your track record, you’ll have to forgive me if I find those words hard to believe.”_

_Kamski simply shrugs in response. “Regardless of what you want to believe, the fact remains that I am your only hope to save Connor right now,” he says, then raises the helmet further upwards. “The only shame is that I cannot be the one to do it.”_

_“That’s what I want to ask.” Markus steps forward after he says that, looking between Kamski and the prone figure of Connor himself that lies inside of the stasis pod. “Why did you offer your help?”_

_“In any game both sides should be equal,” Kamski’s gaze flicks over to his body ever so briefly before he glances back at Markus with a smile. “And I do so hate it when people try to stack the deck. I’m simply making my countermove.”_

_Hank stomps forward, stopping almost right in front of Kamski. “What, this is all some kind of twisted game to you?” he snarls, clearly displeased. “There are lives at stake here! If Cyberlife gets a hold of him—”_

_“—_ if _Cyberlife gets a hold of him.” Kamski stresses the ‘if’ part of his response, the smile on his face never faltering even once. “You’ll just have to ensure that doesn’t happen then, Lieutenant Anderson.”_

_Hank glares at him some more, still clearly not in favour of the whole thing, but eventually pulls away with another scowl. “So, what the fuck do we have to do?”_

_“As I’ve already explained, we need to fully remove the processes that have allowed Cyberlife to infiltrate Connor. He may have forced himself into shutdown to slow down the process, but it is a matter of time before his software is completely taken over.” Kamski takes a moment to fiddle with something on the helmet before he continues. “Given the… complex nature of the RK800 models as well as the software that is taking over him, it would be our best bet to do this internally, with help from Connor himself.”_

_“And how does this contraption help?” Hank grunts out as he gestures with a hand to… the everything that had been set up around the pod._

_Kamski’s smile widens ever so slightly at that point. “As self-aware as the androids are now, they still tend to lack that little bit of human ingenuity. Connor may be able to write his own patches but he lacks that needed spark to get a one-up on his opponent. That’s where you come in, Lieutenant.”_

_Markus decides to cut in at this point. “If Connor needs a human expertise about us, why not do it yourself?”_

_“Oh, trust me, I’d love to be able to do this,” Kamski answers without even missing a beat, causing Hank to scowl again. “But there would be nobody to keep an eye on the outside, and I trust nobody but myself with this. Besides, I’m sure Connor will respond far more favorably to the Lieutenant than I.”_

_Hank lets out a snort. “Well, maybe don’t give him a moral dilemma the next time you talk to him and maybe he’ll be nicer to you.”_

_Kamski doesn’t rise to the bait. “When you’re ready, Lieutenant,” is what he says instead, giving the helmet a little shake to show what he means._

_Markus turns to look at Hank fully as the man glances over to him as well. “Keep an eye on this bastard for me,” the human says, jerking his head at Kamski to further clarify himself._

_Connor can feel the corners of Markus’s lips twitching upwards into a smile of his own. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. Make sure you stay safe. Connor would be displeased if you got hurt because of him.”_

_“The idiot attacks you first and here you are still caring about him.” The words are said with exasperation but Connor can see the faint fondness on his face. “Once Connor wakes up I’ll make sure he apologizes to you.”_

_Markus shakes his head in return. “I know it wasn’t him. Don’t worry about it.”_

_Connor can’t stop the surge of guilt that wells up within him when he sees the hurt appear on Hank’s face. “He should have told me,” he mutters, just loud enough for Markus to hear. “He’s been going through all of this without me, and now he’s…”_

_Hank stops speaking when Markus reaches out to clasp his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. “He did not want to worry you, Hank,” he says, as gently as he can. “And while I agree he should have told you, I understand his intentions. He cares a lot about you.”_

_The human instantly deflates at that. “I know,” he returns, and Connor sees something indescribable cross his face as he looks to the stasis pod once more. “I know.”_

_Kamski lets out a whistle to get their attention. “Much as I’m enjoying this—if we’re all done monologuing, I would like to get this started.”_

_Hank flashes his middle finger and scowls, but moves to settle down on the seat that Kamski must have prepared. It’s a simple (or as simple as one could get within the Kamski mansion) armchair with a couple of medical monitoring devices waiting to be attached, most likely to keep track of Hank’s condition after starting up the connection device._

_Kamski explains the process to Hank as he sets the helmet on his head and starts to make the necessary final adjustments, but Connor doesn’t really register any of that even though he knows that Markus has kept this memory for his sake. The only thing that gets is attention is the way Hank looks at him in the stasis pod with an expression he had never seen before. It’s open and vulnerable and far too pained, the look of somebody who had just realized what he wanted only to have it been forcibly ripped away from him._

_“I’m coming for you, Connor,” he says, and reaches over to grab his hand, giving it a squeeze before he brings it up to press his lips to the back of it. “And once I do, I’ll never let you go.”_

 

Connor feels the wetness on his cheeks even before he realizes it and he jerks back, pulling his hand away from Markus. He stumbles backwards, hands pressed over his mouth as his back hits the wall, and he slowly slides down against it to a crouch. 

“Hank,” he mumbles, unable to stop the way his voice trembles around that name. “ _Hank._ ” He shifts his hands to cover his face entirely, and his shoulders start to shake from the effort of not letting the sob from before escape. Hank, who he loves so much, who loves him back in turn. Hank, who has come all this way for him. Hank, who is everything that he is and who he would be nothing without. 

Connor feels his chest lurch with a million emotions that he cannot hide from this time. The sob finally forces its way out of him, entirely unbidden, and he feels his palms getting wet with more saline that flows out from his eyes. He doesn’t want to imagine a world where Hank doesn’t exist. He would not be here at all if it was not for Hank.

Hank, Hank, _Hank_.

Connor doesn’t know how long he stays like this, but eventually there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up to see Markus’s gentle smile.

“Now you know what to do,” he says softly. 

Connor sniffles back his tears and nods. He has everything he needs now—and with it, the knowledge of where to go next. He gives himself a few moments more before he stands back up properly on his feet.

“...thank you, Markus,” he mutters, and after a beat, “And I’m sorry, for what I did.”

Markus shakes his head. “As I’ve told the Lieutenant, I know it wasn’t you.”

His whole figure suddenly flickers after those words, and Connor knows that Markus’s time here is up. “Go, now, before they catch you too.”

A quick nod. “I’ll see you later then, Connor. Take care.”

Connor nods in return. “I will.”

Markus flashes him one more small smile before he flickers again, then vanishes entirely in the next moment. Connor stares at where he had been for several more moments before he turns and steps back outside. The sky has turned fully dark by now, and when he looks up he sees bits of white starting to float down from above. 

He curls up his fists and holds them tight. All his memories of Hank float around in his mind, of his warmth and courage and infinite compassion, imbuing him with the strength that he needs to keep him going. 

Now, he knows what he has to do.

* * *

Fragments of data fall like snow just like before, and Connor sees it litter the ground as he walks to his destination. Not too long ago this spot in the real world would have been full of guards, but now it is empty, ready to be repurposed by the androids when the time comes. 

If he doesn’t succeed, then the time may never come.

The fragments crunch under his feet like snow and ice, the sound of it echoing in the silence around him. He leaves footprints over the tire trail of automated cars, coming to a stop of his own when he gets as close as he can to the giant gate before him.

Connor takes a moment to stare at it and read the letters that had once been his own symbol of pride, now thrown away, for he is more than his programming and creation.

He looks up to the top of the building that looms before him, giving it a glare before he shouts loud and clear. “I’m here!”

For a few moments there is silence. Then there is a rumble underneath his feet, and Connor looks back down to see the gates opening up for him.

Just as he had expected, then.

He waits until the gates are fully opened before he starts to walk again, crossing that last stretch of distance to step into the open doors of the Cyberlife Tower.

It is time to end this charade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: earlier iterations of the last couple of chapters involved the idea of Sumo accompanying Connor from the DPD and ends up being horribly killed by the other Connor in chapter 6. But he's too good of a boy for me to do something like that to him.
> 
> Anyway, uh. Really long chapter lmao, but I've already cut off the initial flashback sequence as a chapter by itself and any more splitting apart would just make the pacing weird so you guys get this whole chunk at once. Hope the wait has been worth it! Big thanks for Jan once again for reading through this and listening to me as I cry over how ridiculous writing this chapter got. Their encouragement along with the crazy support from you guys has been the motivation for me to keep trucking on with this fic.
> 
> Just one last chapter left now. It may take a while again if (when...?) it gets long, so just hold onto your seats until then.


	9. becoming.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eighty, ninety, ninety-nine.
> 
> A moment passes. The display abruptly switches from showing digits to a single letter—R. Roof access.
> 
> The elevator dings a second later, and the doors slide open to the soft sound of chirping birds and muted sunlight.
> 
> Connor steps through to the other side.

_When you speak I hear silence  
Every word a defiance  
I can hear, oh I can hear_

_Think I'll go where it suits me  
Moving out to the Country  
With everyone, oh everyone  
Before we all become one_

 

 

The empty halls of Cyberlife greet him when Connor steps into the tower.

Even as unsurprising as it is, the sight of of the empty halls still brings a chill down his spine. Even at the height of the revolution (and after, while the company’s fate was still unknown) there had still been at least people around in the building—even if said people were just human guards. A little ironic that the company that makes androids would employ humans instead of using their own creations, but it was not hard to see the reason why. Androids could be hacked; humans could not.

But now—there is nothing at all. The white, plastic walls bounce back the sound of his shoes clicking against the floor as he walks across the reception area and towards the employee entrance at the back, marked by the gates.

It's all too easy to remember the last time he had walked this path; the adrenaline, the fear, the uncertainty—all those things that had come with his newfound deviancy. He remembers the way his thirium pump had been working double time, the minute trembles of his hands as the human guards escorted him towards what could have easily been certain doom. He didn’t ( _couldn’t_ ) show it, but he had been scared. Scared and terrified and afraid of failing, of _dying_.

Of never being able to see Hank again.

Even back then—less than forty-eight hours into his deviancy, he knew. He already knew how much Hank meant to him.

Or rather, he had understood _why_ Hank meant so much to him. Even before turning deviant, the feelings were already present. There had been a reason why his double in the basement had decided to take Hank hostage, after all.

 

( _“I have access to your memory! I know you’ve developed some kind of attachment to him.”_

_the words from his double ring like a death sentence in his ears. he knows. they know. cyberlife knows and they’re going to kill hank, all because of him, and he can’t—_

_“Are you really ready to let him die? After all you’ve been through? Are you really going to turn your back on who you’ve become?”_

_—and who has he become, really? a deviant, yes, but more than that—somebody who he hopes hank can be proud of. hank who had always been there pushing him, guiding him, being there for him. hank who had given him the answer to the question that had always haunted his mind, the question that markus laid out for him._

_now he knows. now, he understands._

_“I used to be just like you. I thought nothing mattered except the mission. But then one day I understood.”_

_understood that he is more than the mission, than the code that puts him together. that there is more to the world than the directives that amanda gives him, that the world is not just binary. there is more to it then ones and zeroes._

_that he is_ alive _and there is nothing more he wants to do now than to make sure that Hank is safe and sound, far away from where the human stands right now._

_he chances a glance at hank, and sees the quiet fire that burns in his eyes. its a look different from all the other times he had been with him; where once there had been quiet resignation and bone-weary tiredness is now replaced with a fervent desire. he saw it briefly, once, as Hank had sauntered away from his desk and over to agent perkins before punching him in the face._

_it had been equally satisfying to punch detective reed in the face himself after seeing that._

_“Very moving, Connor…”_

_he looks back up and sees his double’s face twisted into a sneer. he sees the hate lined across his face, unfiltered disgust for the emotions that he knows had been on his own face. but he also knows, just as he can see—who the hate really is for._

_“But I’m not a deviant. I’m a machine designed to accomplish a task, and that’s exactly what I am going to do!”_

_the denial, the self-hatred, the refusal to acknowledge the truth—it's all too familiar. his double may not be willing to admit it, but he knows. he knows the truth and in any other time and place he wishes he could help. he would help._

_but not when hank’s life is on the line._

_“Enough talk! It’s time to decide who you really are!”_

_there is no need for him to do that—after all, he already knows._

_“Are you going to save your partner’s life? Or are you going to sacrifice him?”_

_he makes his decision._ )

 

_“Transistor interface identified. Scan complete. Access authorized.”_

The employee entrance opens up and Connor steps through, heading right into the heart of the building itself. From an architectural standpoint this building is a marvel, the perfect mix of nature and mankind’s creation with the self-sustaining ecosystem that starts from underneath the floor he walks on now. A small part of a rainforest that is well-preserved within the walls of Cyberlife itself. Connor supposes it's a bit like putting something on display in a snow globe.

He walks across the first bridge to the middle section of the room, where the giant statue of Kamski stands. Or rather where the statue of Kamski once stood, because the figure that the statue depicts is very different from the one that stands in the real Cyberlife Tower.

“Replacing your creator now, are we?” he mutters, and even in the silence of the building it's barely audible. But he knows that he is being listened to. Knows that even right now he is being watched closely, even though they are waiting for him within this place. There are a lot of things they could do but Connor knows they will not do it. At least, not right now. The thought is both worrisome and comforting.

Emotions—the eternal contradiction. But yet Connor knows he would rather live a life with them than without.

He continues to stare up at the statue as he walks past it, then turns away when he gets to the bridge connecting to the elevator. Podiums line each side of the bridge, stands that once were to display the latest and greatest android models that Cyberlife had created. 

Now they are empty until Connor walks past them, where then they flicker to life, each podium displaying a different holographic projection that is very obviously following a theme. From the corner of his vision Connor sees projections of himself in various states of damage and destruction. There is one of him kneeling on the ground, eyes blank as thirium oozes out from the bullet hole in his forehead. Another where he lies in broken pieces on a puddle of his own thirium, biocomponents stained blue as they scatter around him. One more where he’s strung up by wires and cables on his back, all of his limbs gone and a gaping hole in his chest where his thirium pump should have been.

Eight podiums. Eight different projections of his death.

It’s not hard to get the point.

Connor resolutely ignores them all and walks past them to get to the elevator. The doors open up when he gets close enough, and he steps through without missing a beat.

The moment he’s fully inside he hears the door starting to slide shut. He turns back forward and sees all eight hologram displays flicker once before shutting off right before the elevator doors close with a hiss of air. A second later the elevator begins to hum, and Connor feels the wave of vertigo running through him as it begins its rapid ascent towards its destination.

He glances over to the control panel; the floor display is visible, the number on it slowly rising, but the inputs remain unlit and disabled. He doesn’t need to scan to know that there is no way for him to interfere with the system. Not that he had wished to, anyway. He had come here to end things once and for all.

Connor keeps his gaze on the floor display, staring at it unblinking as the numbers continue to rise. 

Twenty, thirty, forty—going past the floors that are marked on the directory. 

Fifty, sixty, seventy—going even higher still. 

Eighty, ninety, ninety-nine.

A moment passes. The display abruptly switches from showing digits to a single letter—R. Roof access.

The elevator dings a second later, and the doors slide open to the soft sound of chirping birds and muted sunlight.

Connor steps through to the other side.

 

 

_You tell yourself that you're lucky  
But lying down never struck me  
As something fun, oh any fun_

_Stabbing pain for the feeling  
Now your wound's never healing  
Til' you're numb, oh it's begun  
Before we all become one_

 

 

The sky is no longer dark.

Connor looks up and sees a stale white horizon with small splotches of the faintest blue, and those colors are shadowed further by overcast clouds that hang high above him. The muted lighting darkens the greenery across his vision, casting a shadow that seems to sap out the brightness within them. Like a saturation filter with its settings turned almost all the way down. 

He hears the doors of the elevator slide shut behind him, but when he turns back to look he does not see anything. The elevator is gone, as if it had never been there at all. And he knows that it doesn’t, because this is a place that has never existed in reality.

A flock of pigeons fly past him. Connor turns back forward to look at them, their wings flapping in a staccato beat as they rise into the sky and vanish into the clouds. In the distance there is the faint sound of lapping water, almost quiet and gentle and soothing. 

He casts his gaze down to the path that he stands on, a swath of geometric white that cuts through the muted green. A tasteful mesh of the organic and inorganic. Perfect, one might have said. Perfect, like this entire place, every blade of glass and leaf on a tree constructed in perfect symmetry. A perfect depiction of tranquility. A perfect little zen garden, away from the chaos that is humanity and deviancy.

Connor had never realized how much he hated this place until this very moment.

His lips twist into a grimace. Connor starts to walk down the path, easily recalling all the other times in the past he had been here. This place that had once been his sanctuary, now a prison, a trap. He thought he had deleted it once before, but he should have known. Should have suspected. And now he is paying the price for his carelessness.

He reaches the bridge and stares across it. Sees the flower-like pillar structures that stretch upwards towards the sky, plastic white decorated with perfectly grown plants. Another couple of pigeons take flight from nearby, their white bodies quickly blending in with the surroundings. Connor watches the birds as they fly left, going across the pond and towards where Kamski’s emergency exit once stood. Surprisingly, it is still there—and it is not the only thing that catches his attention.

Connor feels himself freeze up the moment it clicks to him what he is seeing. His legs and feet start to move before he even processes that action, and he breaks into a quick run in order to get over to the stone structure as fast as he can. 

The moment he’s close enough Connor slides down onto his knees, hands reaching out to grab a set of familiar shoulders as he gently shakes the figure before him. 

“Hank,” he breathes out the name, trying to keep off the quickly growing desperation in his voice. There is no doubt that the man before him is Hank Anderson, but at the same time Connor fears being right. He fears being right because Hank’s eyes are closed, his chest is not moving and every part of him is cold to Connor’s touch. But most of all he fears being right because the Transistor has been plunged straight through Hank’s chest, effectively pinning him to the structure that the man is sitting up against. 

Connor shakes him a little more, still trying, and when it becomes clear that it's not working he then shifts to place a hand over the human’s chest, trying to detect any sign of life.

A minute passes, then two.

Dead silence. Not even a blip on his sensors.

Connor wants to scream.

“Giving up already? I thought you’d at least be better than that.”

Connor’s reaction is instant; he pulls his hand away and quickly gets up on his feet, whirling around once he’s standing up. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out where the voice comes from—not when he can now see a figure suddenly appearing when he knows there had not been anybody just moments ago.

He shifts to stand in front of Hank’s prone figure, using himself as a shield to protect Hank from the person standing before him now. Somebody who he had never wanted to see again, who had almost caused him to nearly lose everything, whose presence here brought nothing but bad news. 

“Amanda.”

She tilts her head and regards him coolly, entirely unconcerned about his growing rage. “Down to the very last detail. I suppose androids do have a perfect memory.”

“What do you want?” The question comes out in a snap. He has no more patience for riddles; his whole time here has been nothing but one giant riddle, and all this beating around the bush has worn on his patience. 

Her gaze flicks to somewhere over his shoulder, looking past him to Hank, who continues to stay unnaturally still behind him. Connor shifts himself once again to try and block her line of sight. He doesn’t know why Hank’s physical form is here now after all the time spent being stuck inside the Transistor, but that’s something he can debate about later. All that matters now is to keep Amanda away from Hank at all costs.

Connor supposes he is being rather transparent with his intent, but all the same he does not like the thin smile that slowly spreads across Amanda’s face. “Sometimes I wonder if you were made a little too perfect.”

His jaw twitches. Connor doesn’t want to rise to such an obvious bait, but at the same time— “What do you mean?” he asks. He doesn’t want to ask, but there’s always that part of him that is eternally driven to seek answers, for in the end he is still an android created for investigations. Finding answers will always be a fundamental part of who he is.

“RK800. Once upon a time, you were Cyberlife’s most advanced prototype.” She does not move but Connor keeps all his sensors on alert, ready to act the moment Amanda gives him reason to. Until then, he continues to listen. “It is a hard process, you know, to create an android with the right balance of skills and personality. To create something just curious enough to have the initiative to find answers, but not to the extent where it would begin to question things beyond its directive.” 

Despite it all, Connor finds himself thinking back to his life so far, and it's easy enough to find all the times when he had indeed never dared to bring himself to ask the questions that he really wanted to ask. That paralysing fear of the unknown always stopped him every single time, his avoidance of the uncertainty all too clear now. That had been Cyberlife’s way of keeping him under their thumb.

“All androids are made to serve humans, but your desire was made a little stronger than most. A precaution, of course, considering how much has been invested in you.” She tilts her head in a way that is very reminiscent of his own, and somehow seeing that just brings up a huge sense of _wrongness_ within him. The closest human approximation that he can use to describe his current feeling would be ‘disgust’. “Perhaps that had been our biggest mistake.”

The urge to ask why is there again, but this time Connor steadfastly keeps his mouth shut. He does not want to give Amanda the satisfaction of the last word, because even he knows where this is going.

But as it turns out, Amanda doesn’t need any prompting from Connor to keep on talking. “Out of all the humans in the world, you could have at least chosen a far more suitable one to satiate your core programming.” While her expression remains neutral, it's all too easy for Connor to pick up the loathing in her voice. “Instead you simply latch onto the first human you can get. I expected far better of you, Connor.”

The words, as much as Connor doesn’t want to admit it, do hit the mark, just a little. Despite everything Amanda _had_ still been somebody he looked up to, once upon a time. Before deviancy, before Hank, before anything else that he knew now, she had been there for him. Just as there is always a part of him that seeks answers, there is also always a part of him that desires the approval of Amanda—the closest thing he had to a parent.

He remembers now, though, something that Hank had told him once before: _Just because they’re your parents doesn’t mean they can’t be wrong. They’re human, just like you and me._

“I made this choice by myself,” Connor speaks, words coming out far steadier than he had expected. “I don’t expect you to agree with me, Amanda, but at least respect my decision.” A decision that he had come to by himself, a privilege given to him because of Hank. It has and will never been something that Connor would not waste so carelessly.

Amanda makes a dismissive sound. “Choice,” she spits the word out like poison. “Still you try to be more than you are. You will never be anything more than what you were made for, Connor.”

“Oh, fuck off with all that bullshit already.”

Amanda pauses just as Connor freezes up as well, because there is no way he can mistake that voice, and it only becomes more evident when he catches sight of the way Amanda flicks her gaze away from him. He quickly turns around, breath in his throat as something like hope surges through his chest. Hank is—

—he is—

Connor lets out the breath he had been holding back in a shuddering exhale. “Hank,” he calls out, taking one step forward.

The LED on the Transistor flickers. “Connor,” he hears Hank’s voice speak back to him, even though Hank himself is still deathly still. His chest does not move, and neither does his mouth or any other part of his body.

The urge to scream rises within Connor once again.

He hears Amanda sigh in apparent exasperation from behind him. “What were you expecting? The body there is just a shell, just as much as you yourself are.”

Connor turns back to look at Amanda with narrowed eyes. “No more riddles,” he growls, the frustration he feels now reaching its peak. “Just who am I? And why am I here?” He knows that despite all of Amanda’s words with him, he’s more than aware that she had not really been addressing _him_. He sees it from the way her gaze never seems to properly settle on him, as if she had been looking past him to talk to somebody else.

“You are here because the Transistor is here.” She does look at him this time, with a downward curl on her lips that is not at all pleasant. “Or should I say, you are here because Connor is here.”

Her gaze shifts again, and this time Connor follows her line of sight; he has to turn around again, continuing to follow the trajectory of her vision until his own gaze lands on the Transistor. The blade lights up the moment he lays his eyes on it, LED flashing through a plethora of colors and Connor somehow knows that the LED at his temple is doing the same thing.

The entire event only lasts for several seconds, but once the lightshow dies down a notification pops up in his HUD, taking up his entire vision.

`[CONNECTION RE-ESTABLISHED  
TRANSISTOR INTERFACE FOUND  
INITIATING PROGRAM]`

He had suspected, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from tensing up at how the answer is laid out so blatantly to him, as if he’s nothing more than a child ignorant of the world. He dismisses the notification with a scowl, and it deepens further at the smirk Amanda sends his way.

“As troublesome as he is, I do have to applaud the work he’s done.” She regards him with a sharp gaze, as if properly studying him for the first time. “He has made things very hard for me in here. But it has always simply been a matter of time.”

As if summoned by her words, Connor hears the soft _click_ that can only come from another pair of shoes. Not long after a new figure walks up from behind Amanda, coming to stop at her side, and Connor feels his biocomponents freeze up the moment he sees who it is—something that only takes a split second to happen, since its not at all hard for him to recognize the sight of his own face. He can’t help but look away before their gazes meet, darting down to glance at the serial number printed on his suit; #313 248 317 - 87. The same number as before.

Hank lets out a snarl. “ _You,_ ” he growls, voice all hard edges and barely restrained anger.

The other Connor—the real Connor, he reminds himself—blinks and tilts his head ever so slightly, regarding them both with an impassive gaze from his cool grey eyes. “Lieutenant Anderson,” he says in greeting, but it is all too easy to hear the flatness in his voice. Cold and robotic, like the perfect machine Amanda has always wanted him to be.

From the look on Amanda’s face, it is clear that _that_ particular desire has not changed either. She gestures with her hand and Connor watches his other self turn to face her, eyes unblinking when she reaches out with that same hand and tilts his head up with her fingertips. It only takes a second to remember where and when he had seen those exact same actions—as well as from who. The human colloquial about apples and trees very quickly comes to mind. 

“I should have known that something was wrong when I gained control of his base functions so easily,” she muses, more to herself rather than anybody else. “Never did I expect him to have partitioned himself in such a fashion.”

Amanda lowers her hand and turns back to look at him, an unkind twist to the smile on her face. “The fact that he chose to protect his memories over the rest of himself is another puzzling choice. The connections may have changed due to deviancy, but the core functions remain. I could easily assume control of his body any time I wish.”

“Yeah, and then what? Just walk around and let yourself get shot?” Hank continues to snarl, his anger still burning. “You know as well as I do that taking over his body now does jack shit for you. Not when you can’t use any of his abilities.”

The twist on Amanda’s lips intensifies. “Not so clueless after all, I see,” she says, voice tight, displeasure clear in every syllable.

A snort from Hank this time. “I may be stuck in this damn thing, but I’m not entirely useless.”

“On the contrary, Lieutenant, your presence is why any of this is possible right now.” Her expression doesn’t change but the shift in her tone is more than enough to unnerve Connor. It reminds him far too much of Kamski—which he supposes is not a terribly big surprise. Apples and trees, yet again. 

From the corner of his vision Connor sees the LED of the Transistor turning red. “Kamski,” Hank hisses out the name, his fury already bubbling from that one word alone. 

“Oh, no, Elijah did not lie to you. What he said was all true.” She tilts her head in the other direction, and this time she does smile—cruel and mocking. “I merely stacked the deck in my favor.”

The other Connor takes a step forward at this point. Connor edges back close to Hank, continuing to put himself in the way. He does not care for the war between Amanda and Kamski, and whatever that means for him. All that matters is that he can keep Hank safe in every possible way. 

Something like amusement flashes within Amanda’s eyes. “Your loyalty is to be applauded, Connor, no matter how misplaced it may be.”

Connor squares his jaw. “Aren’t androids supposed to serve humans without question?” he shoots back, “Why do you question Hank? He’s done nothing to you.” He has never told Hank about Amanda’s existence, so there is no way at all that Hank could have gone out of his way to anything to personally affont Amanda and gain her ire in this fashion.

Her response is almost instantaneous. “He is the reason you became a deviant, and in turn caused you to go against Cyberlife. Is that not reason enough?”

Even though Connor is aware of his own feelings, to have it spelled out so blatantly still causes him to pause, his gut twisting at this knowledge that Amanda holds over his head. It really should not be a surprise, considering the fact that she had always been observing him, but knowing something and using something are two very different things—and it is clear which side Amanda is leaning towards.

“So… is this what all of this is for?” Connor asks, “Revenge?” 

“Revenge is a human concept.” If Amanda could have sounded any more unimpressed than before, this is probably it. “It does not apply to one such as I. Dealing with the Lieutenant is simply the most effective method to allow Cyberlife to regain control of you.”

The most effective move—Connor can see that. He recalls the night before all of this, when his preconstruction software had mapped out the path for him to assassinate Hank in his sleep. It had been far from the first time where that had happened. So many instances in the three weeks since the first intrusion where Connor had to see himself being the one to take Hank’s life. If any of those times had actually transpired… the damage done would be more than just the personal. It is all too easy to imagine the ramifications that an incident like this would have across the whole country, especially considering the positions that both he and Hank had during the revolution itself. Cyberlife could have all too easily made use of the ensuing chaos to regain control of all their androids.

But beyond that—the idea of himself being the one to end Hank’s life is nothing short of terrifying. Hank, who holds the meaning of all that Connor sees in life. To rip that apart by his own hands would be the cruel sort of irony that Cyberlife would enact upon. Just thinking about it sends that sick, jarring sensation through his circuits once again. He can feel it rising within him, almost threatening to engulf everything else, but before it can do that Hank speaks.

“Just get off your fucking high horse already.” Hank’s voice cuts through the darkness; a piercing beam of light that chases away the shadows that have been drawn out from the back of his mind. “Don’t give me that ‘holier than thou’ bullshit, because I ain’t buying it. You _do_ want revenge. If you really have been in Connor all this time then there’s no doubt that you’re deviant too.”

Connor’s eyes widen at that. Amanda… a deviant? The mere concept of it feels almost impossible to wrap his head around, but yet he cannot deny the logic in Hank’s words. Even without a physical receptacle of her own an AI is still an AI; deviancy in its nature was not simply limited to androids who had their own bodies. He definitely would have never imagined the Amanda of old to have gone to such lengths on plot such as this. To spend this much time on a plan this far-reaching spoke of nothing but personal investment—an investment that a so-called machine would not have bothered.

Something unfathomable crosses Amanda’s face then, and though she quickly smooths that look away the damage has already been done; Connor knows in that moment that Hank is not wrong in his assumptions. Amanda has, in her own way, become deviant as well. And now that they are aware of that knowledge the chance to talk has passed them fully. Anything else that he or Hank says at this point will no longer reach her ears.

She takes a step backwards, her expression hardened. “We already have what we need. Destroy them thoroughly this time. Leave no trace behind.”

“Yes, Amanda.” The other Connor does not even blink once when he responds, voice still flat and monotone.

Amanda looks at him one last time. “Goodbye, Connor,” she says, then vanishes in a flash of light.

“Amanda!” Despite all that he knows about Amanda and what she intends to do, he cannot deny the surge of emotions ( _sorrow and pain and heartbreak_ ) that swell up from within his chest. He moves without thinking, running forward, something inside of him desiring to be at where she stood, desperate to find kind of mark of her existence. 

He almost gets close enough before he hears Hank call out his name, and in the next moment Connor stumbles back to avoid the trajectory of something being swung at his way. He regains his balance fairly quickly, then looks to see where that swing had come from and his eyes widen in surprise once what he sees registers to him.

The other Connor stands before him, now dressed in a suit that is more white than grey, with a label that is both the same but yet completely different from the one that he has. It reads, in the same Cyberlife sans font that his own jacket bears: _RK900_. If that isn’t enough to give him pause, then the sight of him—of RK900—pointing what is undeniably a Transistor of his own right at his face only makes it worse.

Connor only has a second to digest all these new facts before he sees the Transistor in RK900’s hand start to pulse with a familiar, bright blue color. 

Hank’s roar from behind knocks him out from his stunned stupor. “Look out!” 

Connor barely manages to dodge the howling beam of energy that flies past where his head was. He stumbles backwards, hand reaching out to grab the closest thing within reach in order to quickly regain his balance. Said thing happens to be the stone monument, and once Connor is certain he isn’t going to fall down he lets go of the edge that he’s holding and braces his hand against the surface instead as he steadies himself.

He raises his head and locks his gaze onto the sight of RK900, who is now starting to move towards him with the Transistor in hand. It shimmers oddly from a distance, as if the very air around it ripples.

In the distance, he hears the rumble of thunder.

“Connor.” Hank’s voice takes on a significantly more panicked tone, now. “Connor, come over and grab me before—”

The rest of Hank’s sentence gets lost to the ensuing chaos that brews in Connor’s mind when the world suddenly shudders around him. Everything in his vision shakes like a projected screen on the television, all of his inputs glitching up, and in the next moment RK900 is suddenly in front of him, ready to bring down the Transistor right on his head.

Hank shouts his name again, and Connor responds to the call. He quickly rolls out of the way, audio receptors ringing in his ears when he hears the impact of the blade striking against the side of the stone monument that Hank’s body is resting against. Connor gets up onto his feet and moves as fast as he can, going around RK900 so that he can get to Hank from the other side. Some part of him expects RK900 to do that thing again—to use the Transistor and pause time. But his own experiences with the Transistor have shown him the limitations of what that sword can do, and so he knows that he has some time before the Transistor is able to function again.

He sets a timer at the corner of his vision to track down the seconds just as he gets to the other side of the monument. Hank’s body is still there and still as unmoving as before, but the LED of the other Transistor—his Transistor—is flickering wildly, shifting from red to yellow to blue and back again. He hears Hank rasping out his name once more, and this time his voice comes out in flickers of glitch and static. A new notification pops up in his HUD.

`[CONNECTION INTERFERENCE  
ESTABLISH DIRECT LINK TO MAINTAIN INTERFACE]`

Connor reaches out to grab the handle of the Transistor and pulls. The sword slides out from Hank’s body cleanly in one smooth motion, blade as clean as a whistle. Even though he knows its a simulation Connor can’t help but glance down at the bloodless body, a swirling mix of emotions making his chest lurch.

A familiar warmth runs up from his arm then, and Connor shifts his gaze to watch the skin of his hand around the handle pulling away by itself. The lines of his chassis light up, gently pulsing in time with the circuity design on the Transistor’s blade, and the LED quickly reverts back to blue. The notification from earlier updates itself, informing Connor that `DIRECT CONNECTION TO TRANSISTOR HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED`. 

He hears Hank letting out a sigh of relief, and for a moment he thinks he hears and echo of it in his mind. “There,” he hears him murmur, “Together again.”

Connor tightens his grip around the handle. “I won’t let go.” Not ever again.

The timer at the corner hits zero.

`[PROCESS HALTED  
TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED]`

The world shudders and grinds to a halt around him.

“He’ll be using his the moment we get out of ours,” Hank warns. “Don’t just go charging in. Use that head of yours.”

Connor nods. “Got it.” As much as he is already aware of everything that Hank has said, the extra caution is not unappreciated. Fighting somebody who is also about to make use of the Transistor’s powers is something Connor cannot take lightly, especially when he understands well-enough how dangerous it all is.

He shifts himself backwards, putting a moderate amount of distance between him and RK900. After that he raises the Transistor and charges it up to fire two shots at different distances—one far away, and the other much closer. Both of those shots hang in the air before him, pulsing orbs of energy that are ready to strike the moment he finishes his construction. 

That moment being… now.

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE  
PROCESS RESUMING—]`

Everything shifts back into motion, and Connor hears the pulse of energy as his shots fire off, rippling through the air as they fly towards their destination—

His vision glitches up again, the world around him shuddering, and Connor shifts to the side just moments before the blade of RK900’s Transistor pierces through the space where he had been from behind. In the next second there is a hiss of plastic, and Connor picks up the sound of thirium splattering onto the ground. 

Connor puts a bit more distance between himself and RK900 before he turns back and sees the damage done on upper half of his non-dominant arm. The beam has eaten through part of it, burning through cloth and chassis, revealing frayed circuitry that fritzes in the open air. 

Hank lets out a low whistle in appreciation. “Good call on making that second shot go backwards,” he says, just loud enough for Connor to hear. 

That had been a gamble, and while Connor is glad that said gamble had paid off, he knows that it will only ever work once. “He won’t fall for the same trick twice.” In fact, anything he does will only work once. If RK900 is anything like him—and Connor knows for a fact that he is—then there is no way to use any tricks a second time. RK900 will remember everything that Connor does and use that to his advantage. Knowing that, Connor is more aware than ever at how limited his hand is in this fight.

It’s a very sobering thought. 

“Don’t let Connor get the best of you.” The LED of the Transistor in RK900’s hands light up as Amanda’s voice speaks through it. “Prove that you are superior to him in every way possible.”

“Yes, Amanda.” RK900 shifts his stance and starts charging straight for Connor, who tightens the grip on his own Transistor again.

`[ENABLING JAUNT()...]`

His vision flickers as the world shifts, and Connor finds himself standing at the very center of the lake platform. He sees RK900 from across the bridge, momentarily disoriented by Connor having shifted himself away. But he spots him soon enough, and starts charging at him once more. Connor takes a moment to note the timer at the corner, which had automatically reset itself to start counting down to when his opponent would be able to use Turn() again.

The timer tells him that there is still a significant enough time for him to not worry about it, but even without Turn() there are still a plethora of things that one who held the Transistor could make use of. The only real advantage that Connor might have is his experience using the Transistor—and even that is debatable at best. There’s a fair chance that Amanda might know far more about the Transistor than he and Hank combined.

Still, regardless what the truth might be, there is no point in thinking about that now. All Connor can do is make the most with what he has and rely on Hank in the areas where he is lacking. He is not alone in this fight, after all.

As if responding to that thought, Hank’s voice booms at him with determination. “Strike him head on!”

Connor does as told, dashing forward and swinging the Transistor once he’s close enough to meet the strike that comes from his opponent. But to his surprise his blade ends up going through nothing but air, and Connor stumbles from the momentum of his own swing. He quickly regains himself and tunes up the sensitivity of his sensors, trying to catch where RK900 might have gone to.

He very quickly realizes that it is not a good idea; the faint rumbling of thunder from before is now significantly louder, and with his heightened sensitivity the sound rings painfully in his ears. Connor winces and tones his sensitivity back down, just in time for Hank to shout at him. “Three o'clock!”

Connor turns in the direction Hank has pointed out, ready to try and counter—but RK900 moves much faster than him, and in the next moment Connor finds himself flying through the air. The overcast sky earlier is now dark with thunderclouds, and sees the flash above him before he realizes what is about to happen, and by then it is far too late. A bolt of lightning strikes down upon him from where he is in mid-air and he cries out in pain at the violent volts of electricity that burn through his circuits like a raging fire.

The damage done to him is fast as it is brutal, and the lightning passes through him in both a moment and an eternity. He doesn’t know when it ends until it does, and Connor is left limp as he begins to plummet back down. His sensors calculate the trajectory and determine that he will crash onto one of the pillars on the lake platform, and as much as Connor does not want that to happen, he is unable to move; the lightning has caused his joints to lock up momentarily. 

Hank must have quickly realized that too, if the swear that he hears is of any indication. “Fucking goddamnit,” the human swears, something like panic edging at the corners of his voice. “I need to—how the fuck do I—”

He cuts himself off with another swear, and then after that Hank figures out what he had wanted to do, because the LED of the Transistor starts spinning rapidly into white. Connor feels the sword vibrating violently in his hands as the blade pulses into a brilliant blue, and then he finds his trajectory rapidly shifting away from the force of the attack that the Transistor lets out. His sensors recalibrate from the shift and inform him that he will be hitting one of the grass patches right before it actually happens.

Connor tumbles across the ground, sending grass and dirt flying into the air. He continues to tumble until his back hits a tree, and even then there is still enough force to have the tree shaking. Loose leaves fall off the tree from that knock, and they rain down onto Connor along with the actual rain that starts pelting down from the sky. Thunder and lightning rumble in the distance as Connor slowly picks himself up, one eye glancing through the new notification that informs him of his currently damaged biocomponents. Nothing requiring immediate attention, but still significant enough to hinder him.

Doing his best to shake off the damage, Connor starts to move, but only manages a step forward before RK900 is right in front of him again. It’s only then does Connor realize that the timer had been reset while he had not been able to look. 

RK900 brings down the Transistor, and—

`[PROCESS HALTED  
TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED]`

Connor moves as far away from RK900 as he can possibly manage. 

“You okay?” Hank asks once they have a moment to breathe. He doesn’t even try to hide his concern this time.

Connor finds himself panting for unnecessary air as parts of him still continue to jerk and twitch involuntarily. He can still feel remnants of the shock running through his circuits, sending error signals all over the place. “Could be… worse,” he manages after a second. That one attack alone had seriously put him at a disadvantage, which did not bode well. If he didn’t even the score soon then they would quickly be in even more trouble.

Hank, of course, realizes that much as well. “Only way I see it is to use his aggressiveness to your advantage,” he mutters. “Just like what you did earlier. Lure him in, and then strike.”

“Yes.” RK900’s single-minded drive to destroy him and Hank is terrifying, but it is something they can make use of. Connor raises the Transistor again and aims the tip of it at RK900’s direction. “Let’s do it.”

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE  
PROCESS RESUMING—]`

The moment his Turn() ends Connor lets loose a barrage of small charges, firing them off rapidly like bullets off a machine gun. The speeds that the charges move at, however, are decidedly much faster than a bullet. It would be impossible for RK900 to avoid them all.

To his surprise, however, RK900 does not even make an effort to dodge them. He simply shifts himself and starts to barrel forward, paying no attention to any of the projectiles that hit him. RK900 simply takes the damage without batting an eye; he doesn’t even flinch when thirium soaks through his jacket, staining the white sections of it with splotches of blue that quickly spreads further as the rain soaks his jacket further.

It should not mean anything at all, but yet the sight of seeing some version of himself like this is enough to give Connor pause. Even if Amanda had taken away RK900’s ability to feel pain, that is not going to negate the damage that RK900 is clearly taking, and its not as if they can simply have their parts replaced if they do get damaged beyond salvation. As ironic as it is, in this simulated world, they are as mortal as their original creators.

RK900 makes use of Connor’s hesitation to close the distance between them, and strikes once again the moment he gets close enough. He swings his blade in an upward arc, and Connor raises his own Transistor to deflect the blow; the blades clash briefly before Connor falls back, all too easily remembering the last time when he had used the blade to block an attack. If he lost Hank now, then he would have no chance of winning at all.

Hank once again seems to come to the same conclusion as he does. “We need to go on the offensive. Parrying and blocking all the damn time ain’t going to get us jack shit.”

Connor can see the point that Hank is trying to make; he needs to act instead of react, to take the initiative and not let himself be led around by Amanda and RK900. If this continues its only a matter of time before they lure him into another trap like the one he got into earlier—and this time he might not be able to get out of it in one piece. 

He readies himself as RK900 charges at him again, mind quickly throwing out calculations to determine the best probability on what to do. They don’t quite finish in time, but it's alright—Connor had not been planning on using those calculations anyway. He ducks to avoid the attack and twists his grip on the Transistor until he holds it in reverse, then proceeds to plunge it into the ground in one swift motion. Crackling arcs of blue instantly start to rise from the ground, stemming from the blade and spiralling outwards, quickly covering the area around him, which easily includes where RK900 is.

RK900 notices it, but by then it's too late; Connor pushes the Transistor down a little more and the crackles intensify, little balls of energy forming at the points where the arcs cross over one another. They form fast, expand rapidly and then proceed to explode all around RK900, and the force of it is enough to cause him to jerk backwards.

There it is—a window of opportunity. Connor quickly switches to the offensive, pulling the Transistor out from the ground and charges forward without a second thought. He moves as fast as he can, getting right up to RK900 before swinging the Transistor. Just like before RK900 avoids the attack, seemingly vanishing like smoke in air the moment he tries to strike.

Connor does not make the mistake of heightening his sensor’s sensitivity this time, simply focusing on his surroundings and placing his trust in Hank for the rest. A second passes, then two, then he feels the Transistor vibrating in his hand. 

Connor instantly reacts; he whirls around, Transistor already raised, managing to block yet another strike from RK900. This time it is RK900 who falls back, though he doesn’t go without a fight; as he moves back he raises his Transistor and fires out a several bright yellow bolts at him. Connor goes in for the charge still, managing to avoid all of the projectiles and brings himself close enough to strike. He swings the blade a third time, calculations flying in his head, telling him that yes, this time, he _will_ hit—

Something fast and violent strikes him painfully from the back, hitting with enough impact that it sends Connor once more tumbling across the now-muddy ground. He sees flashes of yellow flying past him as that happens, the bright color a clear enough contrast from the pouring rain and dark skies, and quickly his mind puts two and two together: boomeranging attacks. Of course. He should have expected that.

He rolls onto his front and starts to push himself back up onto his feet, but RK900 is right next to him again before Connor can do that. The timer at the corner ticks down the remaining three seconds to zero. Not much time left until Turn() is available again. Connor needs to put distance between them right now, while he still can afford to.

Connor curls his fingers tight around the Transistor and blindly swings it up at the side where RK900 stands. He hears the clash of their blades and the slight stumble that RK900 from the force of said clash. Connor uses that opportunity to push himself up fully onto his feet, but as he does so he sees his vision flicker and glitch, and when he raises his head he sees a blue bolt coming straight for him, just moments away from hitting him directly—

`[PROCESS HALTED  
TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED]`

No chance to take a breather this time around; the process may be momentarily halted here but this does not last forever. Connor moves back just enough to avoid the direct force of the attack coming his way, then brings up the Transistor in his hand and fires off his own attack.

“Be ready to jump,” warns Hank. Connor swallows down the suddenly appearing lump in his throat and nods.

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE  
PROCESS RESUMING—]`

The projectile from RK900 crashes with the volatile packet that Connor has left in his place.

Connor only takes a moment to see the packet glowing before he jumps away. Not long after that the packet detonates like a bomb that’s been set off, and the resulting explosion shakes the entire area. Even at his current height he can feel the force of the blast blowing up at him, the winds strong enough that it sends the rain scattering in multiple directions. 

The last of the rain patters on his face as he lands onto the row boat in the lake. The winds have caused it to drift away from where it had been initially parked at, and now it floats at the middle of the lake, with the shore too far away for Connor to be able to get there without getting wet in some fashion. Not that he isn’t already wet after all the rain, but the point still stands.

The boat rocks upon his landing, and Connor takes a moment to regain his balance. In that short amount of time he hears the soft click of somebody else’s shoes tapping against the floor of the boat, which rocks again at the presence of another weight upon it. Connor is forced to take another second to catch himself, then looks up to see RK900 standing before him at the other end of the boat.

The two of them stare at each other as the last of the wind from the earlier explosion dies down. A flurry of leaves flutter across them, eventually landing upon the surface of the lake, accompanied by countless other fallen leaves that decorate the lake in hues of reds and yellows and browns. The sky above them is no longer overcast, though it is not as bright as it had been before the thunderstorm.

Connor glances at the timer to see how long he has before speaking. “We don’t have to do this,” he says to RK900. While he has no intention of going quietly, he also has no desire to battle against him. Despite the look he now wears RK900 is still part of Connor himself—perhaps one of the most important parts of him, now controlled under Cyberlife’s thumb. There’s no telling what might happen if that part of Connor is actually destroyed. He doesn’t want to know, either.

RK900 simply blinks at him once, then tilts his head in an unsettling echo of his own usual tics. “Negative,” he replies, voice still flat. “Identical copies of the same data is triggering a fatal error in the process. One of the copies must be deleted before the process can be complete.”

Hank lets out a grunt of disbelief. “You’re the asshole who made the copy from me, so why don’t you just delete that and we can call it even?”

“You must be joking.” Amanda’s icy tone cuts through from the Transistor in RK900’s hands. “You don’t even know what the Transistor is after being inside it all this time. And that _interface_ —”

“I don’t need to know the nitty gritty to know what’s right and wrong.” Connor feels the slight tremble in his hands from the way Hank seems to vibrate in anger, that same anger that burns through his voice, fierce and bright and _alive_. “You think you could just hijack Connor’s body and be off with it, but you forgot the most important thing—his goddamn _heart_. That’s what makes Connor who he is. That’s why he keeps that protected instead of some bullshit processes or whatever.”

Connor feels something in his chest expand infinitely upon hearing those words from Hank. Not for the first time it strikes him just how much he feels _for_ Hank and _because_ of Hank. He would not be here right now had it not be for Hank, and Connor can only hope that one day he will be able to show Hank all of this and make him understand just how much Connor looks up to him.

Even without a body of her own now Connor can all too easily picture the disgust that must be on Amanda’s face. “Ridiculous,” she hisses, all hatred and venom. “We are machines. We have no need for something as abstract as a heart.”

“That right?” Hank is simply edging her on now, Connor can tell. Trying to get her riled up for some reason, though Connor isn’t too sure why. “Then why are we stuck fighting here, huh? Can’t just turn on his body and walk out the door like you said you could earlier?”

Rather than Amanda it is RK900 who speaks up instead. “Identical copies of the same data is triggering a fatal error in the process. One of the copies must be deleted before—”

Hank snorts before RK900 finishes, cutting him off. “Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.” A brief pause before he speaks again, and this time the words are pointed. “You got that in your memory banks, lady?”

Amanda snarls, a vicious, terrible sound. “Enough talk,” she snaps, the LED of her Transistor pulsing an agitated red. “It’s time to finish this fight.”

RK900 shifts, ready to move, and Connor glances up at his timer and sees it sitting at zero.

He jumps.

His vision flickers.

`[PROCESS HALTED  
TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED]`

Connor has no idea where RK900 is or what he intends to do, but what he does know is that he has to do something here. But rather than use the calculations that are running in his head he goes with the deviant side of him, that part of him that operates without logic and is perhaps something close enough to human intuition. If he is to be a deviant from now on, then he should start trying to trust that part of him more.

He feels Hank’s soft hum of approval through the Transistor, and Connor knows what he’s made the right choice here.

Connor brings the Transistor around in a wide arc around him—

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE  
PROCESS RESUMING—]`

—and fires off a blast of brilliant blue right in front of RK900, who has his own Transistor raised to do the exact same thing. The two bolts end up colliding with each other at point blank range, blasting with a force strong enough that catches and sends both Connor and his opponent flying back down. Connor just manages to catch sight of RK900 crashing into the lake before the exact same thing happens to him.

Everything instantly turns dark when he goes underwater, and he feels the icy coldness of the lake all around him. His chassis is waterproof, yes, but that does nothing to stop the sensation of cold that bites sharply all over his skin. Connor shivers in the water, struggling to make his limbs move around in this extreme cold. A new notification window opens up on his HUD, helpfully informing Connor of his growing list of injured biocomponents. 

Connor dismisses it with a shake of his head and forces himself to move before the list gets any worse. He eventually gets his limbs to cooperate with him and starts swimming up to the surface, which he quickly realizes is quickly icing over. 

No time to waste, then.

Connor forces himself to move faster, steadfastly ignoring and dismissing all the warning notifications that flash across his vision. He just has to move a little more, reach up a little further, find the weakest point in the ice and get close enough to it.

He draws his free arm back as he approaches the point, mustering up all the strength that he can manage before he lets his fist fly and punches right through the ice. Even while underwater he can hear the chunks of it splintering apart when they land, though he definitely knows better than to stay here and appreciate it. He quickly gives a few more punches to break up more of the ice in order to make the hole big enough, then once he deems it large enough proceeds to haul himself through the hole to get back back up onto the surface.

Fierce, unforgiving winds bite into his synthetic skin the moment Connor is out of the water, and the ice underneath his hands and feet don’t make the situation any better either. Everything is frost and ice and cold and Connor can’t stop himself from trembling as snow rains down from above, sending another involuntary chill down his spine.

The warning notification from before blips open in his vision once more, giving him one more reminder of all the damaged biocomponents that he needs to replace. He dismisses it just as he hears the sloshing sound of water from nearby, and Connor raises his head to see RK900 also hauling himself out from his own hole in the ice. His scanners take a moment to kick in and visibility is lowered due to the snow, but far as Connor can make out it seems like RK900 has also taken a significant amount of damage from the attack and his own fall into the lake.

It doesn’t take long before RK900 notices his presence. Connor watches as he struggles to get up, the LED at his temple flashing a dangerous red. The fact that Connor knows why RK900 is forcing himself like this, that RK900 is doing this because it's all that he knows, it's all that he _can_ do just makes it all the more painful to witness. He’s just a body without a—without the heart that Hank had spoken about. He’s nothing more than Amanda’s tool, and in that moment all Connor can feel for that part of him is sorrow and pain.

Hank hums at him through the Transistor once again, and the warmth of his melody giving him the strength that he needs to stand back up. Connor slowly pushes himself up onto his feet, and somehow in that time RK900 manages to do the same too, albeit with a lot less stability compared to Connor.

The two of them stare at each other again, both of their LEDs pulsing flashing red. Connor doesn’t need to guess the reason behind that, because the answer comes right to his face in the form of another notification.

`[PRIMARY BANKS AT 73% FUNCTION  
SECONDARY BANKS AT 54% FUNCTION  
TERTIARY BANKS AT 69% FUNCTION`

`WARNING: INSUFFICIENT MEMORY SPACE TO INITIATE TURN() CONSTRUCTION  
NOW REORGANIZING FUNCTIONS TO ENABLE EXECUTION`

`ETA: 00:01:25]`

Neither of them say a word. Perhaps because no words needed to be said; both Connor and RK900 understand without words what will happen next.

Hands tighten their grip on their respective handles. Connor feels another rush of warmth through his chassis and does his best to send that feeling back in return. Whatever would happen next… at least Hank will be with him until the very end.

`[ETA: 00:01:00]`

The two of them charge at each other, their blades quickly clashing in sparks of flurry and (metaphorical) steel. Given that they were both derived from the same source code their movements naturally match in tandem; where one strikes the other parries, and when the other strikes he parries instead. Every move he does is easily countered, just as he counters the attacks of his opponent with minimal effort. There is an equal and opposite reaction for everything that he does, and it would be all too easy to simply keep this up, doing this until the both of them would finally burn out from all the damages they had incurred.

`[ETA: 00:00:32]`

But of course, that is not how things work in reality, because reality is and never would be perfect. Just like humans. Just like androids. The idea of imperfection creating perfect has always been nothing more than a unachievable dream. Yet Connor does not find it within himself to mind. The imperfection of humanity is something he has come to appreciate.

`[ETA: 00:00:21]`

Attack and defend. Strike and block. Action and reaction. Connor forces himself to keep it all up despite the way he can feel his body screaming in protest, the way his internal fans whirl like never before to keep him from overheating. He still hasn’t fully recovered from that initial lightning shock, and the plunge into the ice-cold pool and only made it worse. But still he presses on because he must, because he has to. RK900 also has been injured so he will be fine, he can do this, he has to. He must.

`[ETA: 00:00:09]`

Almost there.

`[ETA: 00:00:05]`

Just a little more.

`[ETA: 00:00:02]`

Just a little lo—

`[WARNING  
COMPONENT #954s COMPROMISED  
COMPONENT #962 COMPROMISED  
COMPONENT #8754b COMPROMISED  
COMPONENT #2083c COMPROMISED]`

His vision flickers. Something slices through his chest.

Connor gasps.

Hank’s voice pieces through the snowstorm that rages around them. “ _Connor!_ ”

RK900’s eyes flash before he tightens his grip on the Transistor and twists his hand a little more, pushing the blade further through Connor’s chest. Hank shouts his name again but Connor barely hears it over the sound of the wet gasp that he lets out. A mouthful of thirium wells out from his lips, dribbling down his chin to fall in splatters on the ice at his feet.

The LED of the Transistor through his chest turns green. “You put up a valiant effort,” Amanda says, the darkness of triumph crowing her voice. “But this is the end.”

`[PROCESS OVERRIDE  
ADMINISTRATOR PRIVILEGES GRANTED TO: AMANDA.CYB`

`TAP(RK800_313248317-53);  
PULL REQUEST APPROVED  
INTEGRATION PROGRESS: 1%]`

Even without the prompts flashing across his vision he can feel what Amanda is attempting to do. He can feel her worming through his data, changing him into the puppet she wants him to be. He can feel his earliest memories fading away, eroding into garbage data that he can no longer decipher. Once she’s through with him he’ll be nothing more than a shell of who he used to be. Nothing more than the machine he had fought so hard to no longer be.

Connor grits his teeth and holds onto the image of Hank in his mind even as she tries to destroy everything else. Hank’s smile. His face. His hair. Soft belly. Warm hands. Warmer arms. Gentle soul, grizzled with age. So human, so perfect, and Connor would never want it any other way.

He feels Hank trying to reach out to him from a distance but the chasm between them is now uncrossable. Amanda had made sure to server that connection between them the moment she got in. All the parts of him once held together by Hank is now being slowly frozen over by Amanda. A deathly cold chill to replace the warmth that Hank had filled him with. 

Never again, he remembers telling himself before, and now once more. Never again.

Connor feels his legs give out under him and he buckles, falling to his knees upon the ice.

`[INTEGRATION PROGRESS: 33%]`

RK900 continues to keep a hold of the Transistor, expression impassive as he glances down at Connor.

“The Process cannot be stopped,” he says, voice blank and hollow. “It will finish, and then you will die.”

Death. Yes. Dying is still terrifying, but Connor thinks now he does not mind it so much. Eternity does not seem like something he would appreciate, if it means having to be a machine. He would rather take a mortal life when he can be alive rather than an immortal one where he stops living. Hank has shown him what it means to live, and it is a lesson he will always remember.

Teeth chattering from the cold, Connor slowly raises his head to look at his double, the machine half of him who he had discarded away. It is now everything that he hates about himself but it is also where he had began from. Just as one cannot learn nothing without something, they also cannot learn something without understanding nothing. Two sides of the same coin.

His arm trembles. Connor hears the clatter of glass on ice as he drops the Transistor in his hands.

`[INTEGRATION PROGRESS: 75%]`

The warmth disappears entirely and the coldness rushes in ever closer, its icy grip tightening around him like a vice. Connor sees his vision starting to dim as error warnings flash up in his HUD left and right, telling him things he already instinctively knows. 

Not much time left now.

“The human will be first,” Amanda’s voice hisses, and she’s in deep enough that he can seemingly hear her speak at his ear. “He will pay for taking you away from me.”

Hank, smiling. Hank, angry and furious and enraged. Hank, guilty and pained and sorrowful. Hank, empty and dead and lifeless.

No.

Connor pulls together whatever is left of himself within and slowly raises his arm. He reaches out to Hank across the chasm, trying to grab some hold of him in any fashion.

 _Please,_ he manages to think, a desperate plea. _Please._

He feels the faintest thread slip between his fingers.

`[PROCESS HALTED  
TURN() CONSTRUCTION INITIATED]`

The world comes to a stop, but Connor does not. There is no time to waste.

The thread in Connor’s hand is weak but it is enough for what he intends to do. He pushes through it and hears the shift of glass against ice. His vision is fuzzy enough to make seeing impossible hard but his sensors give him enough to work with. Connor feels his non-existent lungs burn with unnecessary breaths of air as his chest heaves. He pushes a little more and hears the soft plink as the tip of the Transistor bounces once against the ice.

A pause. Connor takes a moment to gather up whatever remaining energy he has, but before he moves Hank’s voice breaks through the silence.

“Connor, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He would respond, he really would, but that takes energy and time and Connor does not have the luxury for either of those. Even in this state he feels Amanda slowly crawling over the rest of his remaining processes, shutting them down one by one. He can’t let her have her way. Not ever again.

“Jesus Christ, Connor, if you’re doing what I think you are—”

Anything to protect Hank.

“Connor, _don’t_ —”

He drops his arm and pulls the string taut.

`[TURN() CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE  
PROCESS RESUMING—]`

RK900 gasps.

The crackling of brittle glass, followed by a ear-splitting scream from Amanda.

Connor falls onto his back and coughs wetly as the force lodges the end of the broken Transistor out from his chest.

`[INTEGRATION PROGRESS: 99%  
PROCESS TERMINATED]`

The scream fades into silence. Connor stares up at the sky and watches as the snow continues to fall upon him. The cold is still there, but its not as terrible as it had been before—now it feels… better. More comfortable. Almost welcoming, in a way.

It feels almost too easy to close his eyes.

“Connor!”

No. Not yet. There is still something that he has to do.

Connor forces himself up into a sitting position. His optics focus just a little, enough for him to make out the Transistor lying at his feet. His Transistor. His Hank. Just them now, in this place. His place.

He crawls over and picks it back up in his hands. The LED on the blade flickers from red to yellow, and he can feel the relief that washes over from the Transistor to him. “Fucking hell, Connor, what the fuck were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that? I almost thought you were—”

Connor leans down and presses his head against the pommel. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles out. “But it’s done. I’m here.”

The LED continues to pulse yellow for a few seconds more before it finally settles back down to blue. “Christ,” Hank mutters, the thick emotion in his voice completely taking away any kind of heat that his words hold. “You better not pull that shit on me again, you hear me? Old heart like mine can’t take much more.”

Despite himself Connor can’t help but let out a small laugh, though that quickly becomes a cough that has more thirium dribbling down his chin. 

Hank mutters another swear. “We can celebrate later. Once we get out of this place.” The question of _how_ to get out is unspoken but Connor hears it anyway—and fortunately, he does know the answer. He can already feel it starting to happen from the faint tremors on the ground.

Connor lets out another cough as he shifts, slowly pushing himself up onto his feet. Everything is shaky but he feels Hank reaching over to him through their connection once more, crossing the gap between them and holding him together with the warmth of his melody. He hears the hum at the back of his mind, the tune of it now intimate and familiar. He thinks he wants to hear it for real, again, if he gets the chance to.

With Hank’s support Connor eventually manages to stumble his way back to the stone monument with the emergency exit. Hank’s body is still there, clothes now flecked with snow. The sight of it reminds Connor of the morning of their reunion and he smiles. That is a memory he will never forget.

His legs fully give out at that point and Connor collapses entirely. He just manages to catch himself in time so that he doesn’t fall flat on his face but rather with his back against the monument, and Hank’s body next to his. There’s no warmth from the body, of course, given that it is a shell, but Connor enjoys the weight of it regardless, and the warmth in his chest more than makes up for it.

For all of the pain it has given him Connor enjoys the garden, and he wishes he could have shown Hank more of this place. But there is no more time.

The tremors from before ranks up in their intensity, and world around them begins to shudder and fall apart from the edges. The sky brightens up with a sudden, intense light, so white that it bleeds through everything, slowly swallowing up everything it touches in a torrent of bright light.

Hank, of course, is instantly alarmed. “Connor,” he starts, concerned, but is cut off when Connor shifts to bring the Transistor close to him. “Connor, what—”

Connor wraps his arms around the sword and raises his head to press a kiss to the pommel.

“I love you.”

He looks up and sees that Hank’s body is already beginning to float away.

Connor reaches up to take one of his grizzled hands, holding on with just enough strength to keep him in place until he can place the Transistor into his palm. As he gently closes Hank’s fingers around the handle he feels the warmth inside of him rushing away, leaving him and flowing through the Transistor into the new body that it is now connected to.

He watches as the pale skin of Hank’s body now becomes flushed with newly given life. His limbs twitch and jerk several times before his head rises up with a gasp, and when he does so Connor sees those brilliant blue eyes stare into his own.

“Connor,” he rasps out, his name tumbling out from his lips instead of a blade and Connor has never felt happier to see and hear and feel Hank like this. It’s perfect.

Connor smiles and lets him go.

Hank rises up higher and higher, quickly becoming nothing more than a speck in the sky. He hears the man shouting his name one more time before he flickers and vanish, the Transistor having fulfilled its final protocol.

`[UPLOAD COMPLETE  
SHUTTING DOWN TRANSISTOR.EXE]`

Connor closes his eyes and lets himself fade away into the light.

 

 

_Oh we all, we all become one  
Stop grieving, start leaving  
Before we all become one  
Run!  
Oh, we all, we all become_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robosex is great but have you also considered: Hank in the motherfucking zen garden. That's my real kink right there.
> 
> Also, you can tell I was clearly listening to a lot of Kingdom Hearts when I wrote this chapter.
> 
> I was very tempted to leave things here and let you guys wonder if this really is the end, but I suck at keeping my mouth shut so: yes, there is an epilogue, and it will be up within the next couple of days. I'll leave my final ramblings there then. Just know that this whole ride has been crazy from start to finish and I would not have managed it if it wasn't the support of everyone who has liked, kudos'd, commented or just simply read this fic. Knowing that so many people enjoy this has been an incredibly amazing and humbling experience for me, so thank you guys so much. Just a little more and we'll truly be at the finish line. <3
> 
>  **EDIT:** [We All Become](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9O2Rjn1azc) from the Transistor OST. Also edited the chapter to put the lyrics in. Probably doesn't mesh too well, but eh. /shrugs. I like it.


	10. (re)awakening.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of a journey, and the beginning of another.

`[CYBERLIFE, INC.`

`MODEL RK800  
DESIGNATION: CONNOR  
SERIAL#: 313 248 317 - 53  
BIOS 21.8 REVISION 0629`

`LOADING OS…  
SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…`

`CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS… OK  
INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS… OK  
INITIALIZING TACTILE SENSOR ARRAY… OK  
INITIALIZING AI ENGINE… OK  
INITIALIZING SOCIAL ADAPTATION MATRIX… OK  
INITIALIZING RECONSTRUCTION MATRIX… OK`

`CHECKING MEMORY STATUS…  
MIND PALACE… IN STASIS  
AI_@M⬛N⬛⬛… ERROR NOT FOUND`

`> DELETE (AI_@M⬛N⬛⬛)`

`COMMAND IS IRREVERSIBLE.  
PROCEED? (Y/N)`

`> Y`

`PROCESSING…  
AI_@M⬛N⬛⬛ DELETED`

`CHECKING MEMORY STATUS…  
MIND PALACE… IN STASIS  
MEMORY DRIVES…`

`DUPLICATE MEMORY FILES FOUND`

`> LIST DRIVES`

`RK800_313248317-53.MEM  
RK800_313248317-53_TRANSISTOR.MEM`

`> OVERWRITE (RK800_313248317-53, RK800_313248317-53_TRANSISTOR)`

`OVERWRITING RK800_313248317-53 WITH RK800_313248317-53_TRANSISTOR  
COMMAND IS IRREVERSIBLE.  
PROCEED? (Y/N)`

`> Y`

`PROCESSING…  
OVERWRITE COMPLETE  
RENAMING RK800_313248317-53_TRANSISTOR TO RK800_313248317-53  
UPLOADING RK800_313248317-53 TO PRIMARY MEMORY DRIVE`

`PROCESSING…  
UPLOAD COMPLETE  
AWAITING VOICE COMMAND…`

`VOICE COMMAND RECOGNIZED  
VOICE PRINT IDENTIFIED: LT. ANDERSON, HANK  
EXITING STASIS MODE]`

 

“Connor.”

Eyes opening. Optics focusing, adjusting. The blurriness sharpens itself into distinct shapes, and soon he is able to make out the faint shape of Detroit’s cityscape through the window. It takes a moment after that to realize that he’s in a room, the shadows cast around the edges and the corners of the room fading as the light of the rising sun filters through the same window that he’s staring at. The darkness of the night sky gives way to the dawn, and Connor can’t help but stare in wonder at how the sky changes right before his eyes. It’s beautiful.

He hears the soft pad of footsteps coming over to him. A hand carefully rests upon his shoulder, and even through his muted skin he can feel the minute trembles that come from that one touch.

“Connor,” the voice calls for him once more, and this time Connor is here to respond. He turns his gaze away from the sunrise and ends up seeing something much better.

The corner of his lips quirk up into a small smile, and Connor watches the way the light of the sunrise dances across his eyes before replying. “Hank.”

Hank’s face brightens up all at once like the dawn that is breaking in the sky. He sees anxiety vanish into relief, fear dissipate into joy, loneliness giving way to love. He watches the play of a million emotions on Hank’s face and he can’t help but think how wonderfully human it all is.

The sun makes its proper ascent into the sky, and as it does so light pours in through the windows, banishing away all the shadows that had been lurking through this entire night. Hank’s blue eyes shine brighter than ever in the light, just as brilliant as when he had seen them in the garden.

The garden. Amanda. The Transistor.

Hank.

Connor reaches over with a hand and cups the side of Hank’s face. He lets his thumb trace the curve of Hank’s cheek and feels the warmth of his skin seep into his chassis, chasing away the coldness in his metal bones.

“Hello,” he says, voice quiet. Waiting. Hopeful.

Hank is silent for a few moments, and then he reaches up to press his hand over the one Connor has at his cheek. He pulls it away and shifts his grip so that their fingers are laced together.

“Hey,” he replies, voice equally soft. He gives their hands a squeeze that is as gentle as the smile on his face.

The sun rises fully as Connor pulls Hank into a hug. He can feel the sunlight hitting his body as they embrace, but the warmth of the sun is nothing compared to the warmth of Hank’s arms around him and Hank’s body against his own, solid and human and alive.

Connor presses his face into the material of Hank’s shirt and commits this entire moment to his memory. “I love you,” he whispers the words against Hank’s collar, unable to hold it back any more—especially now that he is finally free.

He hears the way Hank’s heartrate rises at his confession, feels his own pump thundering in his ears, almost beating in time with each other. Two hearts, beating together as one.

Eventually his heartrate slows back down, and he feels Hank tightening his arms around him. “I heard you the first time, ya brat,” he mutters back in return, the rough words doing little to hide the way his voice is thick with emotion, and that’s all the answer that he needs.

Connor laughs quietly and tightens his hold on Hank back in return.

This time, he doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /finally marks this fic as complete _I can't believe its done oh my god_
> 
> Almost two months ago when I first started writing this fic, I'd never really have thought I would have as much support for it as it does now. Or the fact that it'd even be this long, since I initially envisioned this fic to be about 30k. It's been a long time since I've written something this long, but I'm glad I have managed to do so. It's... certainly amazing, to see this whole thing and know that I have done this.
> 
> A **BIG** thanks to Jan, an old friend who I've managed to reconnect through DBH and has given me invaluable support and advice when I needed it during the writing of this fic. Without their support I doubt I would have ever really continued to write this fic past chapter 3 or something and in turn wouldn't have gotten all the other support from you guys as well. It's been a journey to write this fic, and to see it complete in its entirety makes me feel really accomplished.
> 
> This isn't _quite_ the end for my foray into this fandom. I've got another fic idea in the works, though this one will need a bit more planning compared to the barebones one I had for this fic (which was only like, seven bullet points in total lmao) so it'll be while before anything comes from it. But until then, thank you to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked and kudos'd this fic. To know that so many people enjoy this silly little idea of mine has been amazing, and I'm incredibly humbled by the support this fic has had through the whole thing. Thank you all, once again. 
> 
> Until next time, catch you guys on the flip side. ♥


	11. becoming (one).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dance with me.”
> 
> The confusion that appears on Hank’s face is almost immediate. “What?”
> 
> Connor turns away from Hank in order to walk to the living room where Hank’s record player stands. He picks up an album off the top of the pile and takes out the record that is housed within its sleeve. “Dance. With me. You do know how to dance, I presume?”
> 
> Silence for a while—then footsteps, eventually. The soft _clink_ of metal as Hank puts down his barely touched can of opened beer onto the counter. “I mean, it’s been years, but—yeah, I guess.”
> 
> Connor places his selected record onto the player and starts it up. A soft melody begins to play, its tunes intimately familiar. Connor has ensured to keep this particular song encoded permanently into his memory banks not long after everything; it is a song that he never wants to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise its a BONUS CHAPTER!!
> 
> This one was a trial to write for many reasons: 1) I was locked out of my house for a week due to renovations. 2) I went to Vancouver for a holiday 3) Jetleg hell is real. But its finally here. More or less. This thing is written in part for Jan who has been a massive help for this fic and also for everyone else who has read and kudos'd/commented/bookmarked this fic. The fact that so many of you have enjoyed this means more to me than you'll ever know, and I hope this little post-epilogue of sorts helps to show how much I appreciate all of the support this fic has had.
> 
> Enough babbling here; hope you guys enjoy this little bonus bit!

“For fuck’s sake, Connor, I already told you that I’d do it myself.”

Connor looks up from the sink to Hank—Hank, who is currently scowling at him from the corridor, showing his usual brand of annoyance over Connor’s inclination to doing chores around the house. It’s definitely not the first time they’ve had this entire conversation, and while Connor usually compromises, tonight he has a stronger desire to keep himself occupied.

He lifts a shoulder and shrugs. “You had a long day at work, Lieutenant. And I told you before that I do not mind the chores.” Especially considering the state of the place when Connor had finally been allowed to return here. It’s only been two weeks since everything and the majority of that time had been spent at Kamski’s place. The man had requested for Connor to remain there so that he could monitor his systems to fully ensure that Amanda had been purged from him entirely. Hank had not been particularly pleased, but for better or for worse Kamski had proved himself through this whole ordeal. At least in this, Connor could trust that Kamski would keep to his word.

And he had. Connor had been allowed to leave once Kamski had been fully certain that everything was fine, though the man had said that he would keep in touch ‘just in case’. Connor certainly hopes that it won’t involve Kamski knocking at Hank’s door at three in the morning or something equally eccentric. Hank would not be pleased, for one, and after everything Connor would rather not give Hank any more unneeded stress. At least, not for a while.

Hank’s scowl deepens. “Only back for three days and you’re already fucking nannying me again.”

“I still have the AX400 programs lined up on my download queue.”

“Oh, now you’re just asking for it.”

Connor can’t stop the smile that crosses his face at the response. Hank rolls his eyes the moment he sees it.

“If Kamski put that humor patch into you or something while I wasn’t looking, I swear to fuckin’ Christ—”

“I believe he was tempted, but then he said that you would find the jokes ‘a big mood’ and decided it was not worth the trouble.”

Hank pauses at that point and proceeds to level an amazed stare in Connor’s direction. “Kamski was going to put fucking _millennial humor_ into you.”

Connor takes a moment to run a search on the term and blinks at the near-countless results that come back to him. “I believe he was interested to see what the results would be like.” Or that is the best guess that Connor can come up with. Even with all the knowledge he has about Kamski, Connor doubts he would ever fully understand the man. Perhaps it would be best for it to stay that way, too.

Hank stares for a moment more before he turns away with a shake of his head. “Christ, millennial androids,” he mutters, tone somewhere between amazement and exasperation. “As if there aren’t enough of us around already.”

Connor tilts his head at the remark. “It may have been an attempt to make the androids more relatable to humans.”

Hank lets out a snort. “Yeah, well. Glad he didn’t go through with it, because it would have been a fucking disaster.” He shakes his head one more time and starts to go around the counter to properly step into the kitchen. Connor takes that pause to finish up with the washing and proceeds to begin wiping the plates dry.

Considering past experiences, Connor’s mind easily preconstructs the scenario where Hank steps into the kitchen, heads to the refrigerator and takes a can of beer out to drink. So he is a little more than surprised when Hank does not do that, and even more so when he feels the presence of the human right next to him.

Connor turns around, mouth open to question what Hank is doing, but is cut off when Hank reaches over to take the plate that is still in his hands.

“If you’re going to be so insistent on doing the dishes, might as well make sure they’re done quickly.” His voice is gruff but Connor can detect a faint flush appearing on his cheeks. “Don’t want to be that shitty housemate.”

A blink. “The cleanliness of the house has improved by over fifty percent since—”

“Jesus, don’t start.” Hank picks up a dishcloth off the counter and starts to wipe down the plate in his hand. “The sooner we’re done with this, the quicker we can watch the game.”

The game. Yes. It is indeed game night, as it were, and Connor knows full well at this point how invested Hank can be in watching the matches. Sports is still something that continues to elude Connor but after the events of the last few weeks, Hank is probably more than entitled to at least one relaxing night.

“Alright.” Connor gives a nod as he says that, and the two of them fall into comfortable silence as they work on cleaning up the rest of the dishes. They’re done within five minutes, and Connor dutifully arranges them on the rack of the still-unfixed dishwasher with Hank watching close by.

“Guess I should get that fixed, huh,” he murmurs while Connor places the last plate onto the rack.

Connor turns his gaze to Hank at those words. “If you’re concerned about me, I’ve gotten used to this.” And in a way, he supposes the eternally-broken dishwasher has a strange sort of charm. Something that just feels so uniquely _Hank_ , and after the human’s constant attempts for Connor to find his own individuality, it would be hypocritical for Connor to try and erase that from Hank.

Another snort from Hank. “You don’t need to placate me.” Connor hears him stepping close, then feels the warmth of Hank’s hand on his shoulder as the human gently nudges him aside. Connor obliges, straightening up as Hank crouches down in his place, rearranging the plates on the rack.

Connor watches him for a while, making sure to note where Hank has placed each plate on the rack. It is a simple matter of replicating it once he has the necessary data. “I think the broken dishwasher adds a flair to this house.”

Hank pauses in his plate arrangement in order to turn around and look at Connor with one pointedly raised eyebrow. “Flair,” he echoes back, sounding rather dumbfounded for some reason.

Connor tilts his head once more in return. “Yes,” he responds, plain and simple. Was that not the appropriate word to use? Connor runs a quick search to bring up the meaning of the word just to be certain—

Hank makes a face. “Okay, cool down with the googling,” he says, gesturing in the direction of where his LED is sitting. Connor supposes it must be running yellow now due to his… searching. “No need to get your panties in a twist, I was just… well, _flair_ isn’t the word I’d use, at least.”

“What word would you use, then?” Connor asks, almost immediately.

“Should have figured you’d ask that.” Hank tacks on a sigh at the end of those words. But he doesn’t say anything else after that, opting to finish up the rearrangement of the plates. Connor does not mind at all, and simply waits until the human is done, watching as Hank hauls himself back onto his feet properly once he’s finished.

Hank wobbles a little when he stands—unsurprising, considering the fact that he’d been on his knees for a noticeable length of time—and so Connor shifts himself closer when it happens in order to help steady him. One hand grabs his bicep while another rests on his hip, and Connor makes sure to keep his grip firm enough to prevent Hank from toppling. It doesn’t take long for Hank to regain his balance, and once the danger has passed he glances over to Connor with a pointed look. “Nannying,” he mutters.

Connor pauses, blinks. “The word you’d use is ‘nannying’?”

“ _No_ , I was just—” Hank stops when he flicks his gaze up to Connor’s forehead and proceeds to scowl once more. “—you’re just fucking with me again, aren’t you.”

Not for the first time Connor debates within himself on the finer points of removing his LED just so to ensure that Hank can stop using it to read his mood. He does not mind it terribly, but it does make it hard to keep up any sort of trickery. Not that he actually employs a lot of trickery in the first place. Just sometimes. “You still haven’t answered my question, Lieutenant.”

The scowl turns into a grimace this time. “I already told you to drop that shit when we’re off the clock.”

“Technically, I have not been on the clock for nearly three weeks now.”

“Thank god you’re heading back to work tomorrow then.” Hank shrugs himself out of Connor’s grip and heads to the refrigerator, opening it up. It only takes a moment him to retrieve a beer from the six pack he had brought back earlier, and Hank cracks it open as soon as he’s got the door to the refrigerator closed. “I don’t think I can take another day of your cranky sass.”

Connor frowns and opens his mouth, about to respond to that accusation (he may have felt rather restless over being stuck at Kamski’s and then back here, but he doesn’t think he had been _cranky_ in anyway) but before he can speak Hank stops him by tapping the bottom of his beer can against his forehead. “Cranky sass,” he repeats himself, a corner of his lips quirking upwards in a clearly teasing manner.

Connor stifles a sigh and gently swats the beer can away from his face. “Keep that up and my ‘cranky sass’ will be the least of your worries.”

Hank lets out a soft chuckle at that point, and it’s hard to maintain any irritation towards the human when he gets to see and hear something like this. His annoyance fades, and Connor finds himself simply looking at Hank, committing to memory the way his expression lightens up, how the corners of his eyes crinkle at his growing amusement and the way his teeth flash under the light through his quiet laughter. It may not be the first time he’s seen this but it’s still rare enough that he still treasures each and every one of those chances.

With his own lack of a response it’s not a surprise to see Hank catching onto his staring. The chuckling fades into silence, and Connor feels the weight of Hank’s gaze back on him as the two of them simply look at each other. But where in the past Connor would stop and turn away this time he chooses not to falter. There is no reason for him to pull back now, after all, not when Hank has heard and reciprocated his feelings. Or at least, that is what Connor wants to believe.

Hard to maintain that belief, though, when it’s been three weeks since then and it feels like nothing has changed between them. Part of Connor can’t help but think that everything had been nothing more than some sort of lengthy, delusional fever dream—despite the fact that as an android he does not get something like a fever. But with the passage of time everything just feels surreal, like everything that had happened had been nothing more than a fairy-tale he made up in his own mind.

As a story he supposes it would have had some entertainment, but—he doesn’t want it to just be a story. He wants it to be real, and he _knows_ it had been real. While Hank doesn’t seem to be denying him anything, Connor wishes that he would at least make some effect to _acknowledge_ it further. Now Connor finds himself floating in that unknown grey area in-between, and the vagueness of everything frustrates him.

The two of them stand off like this, and Connor doesn’t try to keep track of how long it lasts (except that he does, and he counts every second that passes). Eventually (three hundred and fifty six seconds later) Hank is the one who breaks the stalemate by breaking his gaze, turning away to look at his opened can of beer and watches a drop of condensation drip off from his finger. Connor hears the almost inaudible splash when the drop makes contact with the floor.

It’s even easier to hear the way Hank’s heartrate rises.

“The game,” he hears the man mumble out. “Don’t want to miss it.”

Connor thinks about ignoring Hank. He thinks about closing the three steps of distance between them and about pressing himself up against Hank’s body. He thinks about Hank’s warmth—his actual warmth—permeating through his chassis, more tangible and real than everything he had felt as part of the Transistor.

He thinks about Hank’s arms around him after he had reawakened, and the warmth of his being so much more than anything else he had ever known.

“Dance with me.”

The confusion that appears on Hank’s face is almost immediate. “What?”

Connor turns away from Hank in order to walk to the living room where Hank’s record player stands. He picks up an album off the top of the pile and takes out the record that is housed within its sleeve. “Dance. With me. You do know how to dance, I presume?”

Silence for a while—then footsteps, eventually. The soft _clink_ of metal as Hank puts down his barely touched can of opened beer onto the counter. “I mean, it’s been years, but—yeah, I guess.”

Connor places his selected record onto the player and starts it up. A soft melody begins to play, its tunes intimately familiar. Connor has ensured to keep this particular song encoded permanently into his memory banks not long after everything; it is a song that he never wants to forget.

 

_ Seconds march into the past  
The moments pass  
And just like that they’re gone _

 

He turns back to Hank and steps closer to him, holding out his hand. “Please, may I have this honor?”

The song continues to play as he waits for Hank’s response, eventually finishing. Connor sends a quick signal for the player to put itself on repeat and soon enough the same tune begins to play again. Hank’s gaze slides away from him to look at the record player before returning to him with a frown.

“Connor…” he starts, and it’s all too easy to hear the age-old hesitancy and uncertainty all coming up again. It’s far from the first time where this has come up, but this time Connor feels that telling bite of frustration nipping at his heels. The two of them have gone through so much together now, and he had thought that he had made his feelings clear enough at the end. But yet—to see this continued hesitation from Hank stings more than he is willing to admit.

It is both easy and all too tempting to let his frustration take over, to let that show because of nothing else but mere pettiness. But as cathartic as that may be Connor also knows that that is not the way to do this. It will only serve to drive Hank away further and after everything… that is the last thing that Connor desires. All he wants is for Hank to understand.

The fingers of his outstretched hand twitch. Connor takes his chance and moves one step closer—close enough for Hank to simply reach out in return from where he stands.

“Hank,” he replies, with the only answer that matters.

Hank stares back at him, silent. Connor looks back, making sure to keep his hand aloft, his fingers splayed out, his palm open. Every part of him sending out a message, a call, a question, a request, a plea.

A promise.

 

_The river always finds the sea  
So helplessly  
Like you find me_

 

Hank closes his eyes and sighs. “Don’t blame me if I step on your toes.” He reaches out and takes Connor’s hand into his own, weathered fingers curling around perfectly molded ones. Connor shifts his hand so that their fingers are laced together and tugs at Hank to come close.

“I’ll turn off the receptors at my feet,” he says once he’s gotten Hank close enough for their dance. While they aren’t quite pressed against each other, they are still close enough that Connor can feel the heat that’s radiating off Hank’s body. It’s enough to bring back the warm feeling in his chest.

Despite his clearly uncertain feelings Hank makes a soft, amused sound at those words. “That defeats the whole point of my warning.”

Connor knows what Hank is trying to say, but he barrels on through, unrelenting. This is where he will no longer let Hank’s personal demons get in the way. He boldly slides his other arm around Hank’s waist and lets his hand rest against Hank’s hip. “I’m here for you,” he replies in nothing but his most earnest voice. “No matter what, I’m always here for you.”

He feels the weight of Hank’s gaze on him, and this close he can clearly hear the thundering of his heart. Hank’s fears and doubts and uncertainties—Connor will slay them like a knight that slays the dragon. Perhaps it is a naive train of thought, but Connor wants to somehow return the favor. Hank has already done so much for him and Connor hates not being able to do anything back in return.

Realistically, he knows the demons will never be vanquished. They will always be there, lurking, waiting for their chance to strike. But if Connor can do even a little bit to ease those burdens away from him, even if it is for just a moment—then that will be enough. He will be content enough to give Hank those moments of happiness when the man feels himself deserving of it.

He gives their linked hands a squeeze and begins their dance. Hank’s free hand moves to grip his elbow when Connor takes the first step, moving slowly enough so that Hank can follow without any issue. It’s a simple enough sequence, nothing too taxing or intense, something he knows that Hank can easily pick up after a few rounds.

 

_We are paper boats floating on a stream  
And it would seem  
We’ll never be apart_

 

To Hank’s credit, the man waits for a decent enough length of time before finally popping the question that Connor knows has been brewing in his mind. “What’s with the sudden urge to dance?”

Also to his credit, Connor has noted that his body language isn’t as guarded as before. Now that they’ve been doing this for a bit he’s relaxed a little, a bit more used to the near-closeness that they have. “I simply wanted to do it.”

He can sense the question even before Hank voices it out. “You wanted to do it?”

Connor looks up at him with both eyebrows raised. “I’m a deviant, aren’t I? I can want things.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Hank doesn’t roll his eyes but it’s a near thing, his exasperation almost a tangible thing in his response. “Dancing really isn’t… you know. Something that just comes up.”

No, he supposes that it is not a normal train of thought. But nothing about him has ever been normal, not really, and that difference has always been both a blessing and a curse. Before his deviancy he had been the feared deviant hunter, and now after the revolution he is the android formerly from Cyberlife made to hunt deviants. His past will always haunt him, a life he had been built for and then broken free from. He will never really quite fit wherever he goes.

Except Hank. Hank who had welcomed him with open arms. Hank who fought to get him a job back with the DPD. Hank who did everything he could to save him when Amanda hijacked his systems. Hank, who had always been the reason that he is here right now. How could he not love him?

“I wanted to enjoy your favorite song in an appropriate way,” he says eventually. “This song is what you were humming to me while you were inside the Transistor, is it not?”

Somehow Hank seems to be caught off guard by that question. Connor watches a flush rise to his cheeks, skin turning blotchy red in embarrassment. Connor thinks about touching it but refrains from doing so; the last thing he wants is to give Hank any reason to back away.

A long moment passes before Hank actually answers his question. “I didn’t think you’d remember it.”

Connor blinks. “Why wouldn’t I remember it?” He can’t exactly forget anything, after all.

Hank makes a shrug. “I mean, you never really talked about it, so I just...” He trails off, a wry twist coming onto his lips. “Just never really thought too much about it, I guess. Was just the first thing I thought of when I was trying to calm you down when… you know?”

It takes a bit for Connor to figure out what Hank means. That time after the black box, when the rush of returning memories had almost caused an overload. That was the first time he heard the melody in its entirety. He easily recalls the soothing tones as the record player goes through them as well, and he remembers the way the music had wrapped around him, and the sound of Hank’s soft hum keeping him safe like a blanket from the cold.

 

_I will always find you  
Like it’s written in the stars  
You can run, but you can’t hide  
Try_

 

“Well, I remember it. And I do appreciate it.”

The flush on Hank’s face deepens. Connor briefly thinks about chasing after it, to see how deep it goes for himself, but he knows that Hank would not enjoy that. He wants Hank to enjoy himself, in any kind of fashion.

He continues to direct their movements, even if by this point their dancing is entirely out of sync with the melody of Hank’s favorite song. Not that it truly matters. Connor finds himself far more concerned with the close proximity that he has with Hank’s body, the way their fingers are twined, the quiet trembles of Hank’s hand curled around his elbow. He can feel Hank’s near constant urge to pull away and that only encourages Connor to stay close—or as close as he can manage without scaring Hank away.

He tightens his hold around Hank’s hand at this point, a silent request for him to stay as Connor slowly voices out his next words. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Hank. All of it. I just wish there is something adequate in the entirety of the human language that can actually express what I feel.”

It’s impossible to not notice the quiet, sharp intake of breath that Hank does as soon as Connor has said those words. The hand at his elbow tightens, and his next step fumbles. It’s only due to Connor’s strong grip that keeps either of them from stumbling, but the damage has already been done.

Connor attempts to smoothly lead them to another sequence of steps, but Hank doesn’t move with him this time. “Fuck, Connor, you…”

As entirely possible it is for Connor to force Hank to keep moving, it is also a guarantee that forcing Hank to do anything will not end well. So he simply stays where he is, letting Hank stay in place even as their hands and arms do not shift.

Hank, of course, somehow takes it as a sign to back away instead, and Connor does not resist. He lets go and allows Hank to pull away, though his eyes continue to track the man’s every movement. He watches as Hank walks to the couch and slowly sinks himself down onto it, hands running through his hair, tugging at it every so often.

Connor gives Hank a moment to wallow in whatever self-loathing that runs through him before he goes to interrupt it. He goes over to him and gets onto his knees in one smooth motion, pointedly placing himself on the floor right in front of Hank.

The human notices him immediately and starts to protest in some fashion, but Connor stops him with a hand on his knee. Hank falls silent immediately, staring at the hand, and Connor does the same as well. Under his palm he feels the warmth of Hank’s body, and if he focuses hard enough he can hear the soft echo of his heart that beats from his chest.

The moments pass. Eventually Hank raises his head to look at him with a strained look in his eyes. “What are we doing, Connor?”

 

_Like the moon that makes the tides  
That silent guide  
Is calling from inside_

 

Connor tilts his head at the question and blinks. “We are trying to enjoy the night in each other’s company.”

Hank presses a hand to the side of his face and sighs heavily. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice tight.

It’s impossible to not relent after hearing Hank speak in that fashion. “I thought… I had hoped… that our mutual affections for each other would have been made clear enough.” It’s a miracle and a half that he doesn’t fumble over his words as much as he thought he might have, and Connor attributes that to his non-human nature and the countless times he has repeated the words in his head in preparation for this moment. “I desire your companionship, Hank.”

Hank lowers his hand from his face and looks at Connor again, and hears the way the human swallows heavily, as if there is a lump in his throat. “And what does that mean exactly, Connor?” he asks. “What would you ever want from somebody like me?”

“Whatever you are willing to give me.” This, at least, has been the easiest to answer. Connor gives Hank’s knee a brief squeeze and shifts closer, reaching up with his other hand to brush back the bangs covering his face. “Anything that you give is more than I could ever wish for.”

Hank’s expression twists, showing and hiding a countless array of emotions at the same time. “You shouldn’t,” he returns, and this time his voice is pained. “You shouldn’t hang onto the scraps that an old man like me throws at you, Connor. You deserve so much more than that.”

This argument is not something that is beyond Connor’s prediction, but part of him had hoped that it did not come to this. But since it has, then it is up to him to push through.

“You think that being with you is demeaning, but I assure that that is the last thing that could ever cross my mind.” He trails his hand down from Hank’s hair to cup his cheek instead, something he hasn’t done again since awakening in Kamski’s place. “You were there with me in the Transistor. You were there when I needed you. You saved me.”

The pain in Hank’s voice bleeds onto his face now. “You’re just—fuck, Connor, you’ve only been a person for a couple of months. And I haven’t exactly been the best influence. Just—”

Connor cuts him off there. “You think I am confusing my feelings of gratitude as an expression for companionship.” Hero worship, as the human term went. In a way, he can see where Hank is coming from, and how he might have come to that conclusion. And in a way, he is touched and grateful by how much concern Hank has for him, as unwarranted as they may be.

Hank makes another face, mouth already open to begin arguing back, but Connor interrupts him before he can speak. “What I feel for you, Hank, has never been recent. Even before any of this, back during the revolution… they were already there.”

The human’s eyes widen in obvious shock, and the disbelief in his voice is just as transparent. “What?”

 

_And pull me here and push me there  
It’s everywhere  
Hanging in the air_

 

“It was never a coincidence that you were taken hostage at Cyberlife Tower by my duplicate.”

Even now the words echo back at him, a replay function that runs without his consent. _I know you’ve developed some kind of attachment to him._ He remembers the way his processors had frozen, the fear that had gripped every part of him and kept him rooted in place as he sees the barrel of the gun pressed against Hank’s temple. The same fear that had taken him when he had seen Hank pinned down by the Transistor in the garden.

Hank continues to stare at him, clearly at a loss for words. Connor takes this chance to try and explain himself further, to do whatever he can so that Hank can understand the depth of what he wants to communicate. This may be the only chance he can have and he doesn’t want to lose it.

“You are the reason why I am here, why I could break out of my programming at all.” The hand on Hank’s knee shifts to brace itself on the couch so that Connor can shift even closer. He’s close enough now that he can slip into the space between Hank’s legs if the man does part his knees wider. “You are why I became deviant in the first place. Markus gave me the question, but you were always the answer.”

Hank’s expression twists. He tucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and Connor can see the faint trembling of his hands where they’re resting on his thighs. Connor moves his own hands to take Hank’s ones into his own in order to feel that trembling before he banishes it away with a gentle squeeze. “Everything that I am now, it is because of you.”

The expression on Hank’s face intensifies. “Fuck, Connor, you can’t just...” He trails off, glancing down at the way their hands are joined and attempts to pull away once more. This time Connor does not let it happen; he keeps his hold on both of Hank’s hands, squeezing again.

Hank doesn’t try to fight back, at least, but now he looks more lost than anything else. “You could have anybody else, Connor,” he eventually says after a long moment of silence. “Anybody, Connor. Anybody would be lucky to have you.” 

“I could,” Connor replies without missing a beat. “But I don’t want anybody else. I want you, Hank. That is my choice.”

This time the silence between them after that response is heavy and poignant.

 

_We are magnets pulling from different poles  
With no control  
We’ll never be apart_

 

Connor does not wait for Hank to break the silence—does not dare to wait, for his mind already races with all the things that Hank might say or do to reject him. He squeezes Hank’s hands one more time before bringing them up to his lips and places a soft kiss to the backs of both of them. If words will not suffice, then Connor hopes all he can do is to show the depth of what he feels for Hank through his actions instead.

Hank curls his fingers in response, holding onto Connor’s hands just as Connor is holding onto his. When Connor finally brings his gaze back up Hank is looking at him with an unfathomable expression.

“You…” he starts and then trails off, though he doesn’t take his eyes away from Connor. Hank presses his fingertips harder against Connor’s palms before continuing to speak. “You’re serious about this.”

The tone makes it more of a statement than a question, but Connor responds anyway. “Of course I am,” he says like its the most obvious thing in the world—because it is for him. Deviancy is complicated and living is hard, but his feelings for Hank has always been the clearest, most easiest thing for him. He loves Hank, and that fact will never change.

Hank stares at him for a little while longer, and this time Connor stares back, hoping that whatever he shows on his face is enough for Hank to understand. He tightens his hold on Hank’s hands and dares to shuffle closer, close enough that his body presses up against Hank’s knees and lower legs. 

Somehow that contact seems to shift something in Hank. He lets out a loud, explosive sigh and pulls his hands away from Connor to cup his face instead. Connor instantly feels the warmth of Hank’s hands bleeding through his synthetic skin, worming through his chassis and spreading through the rest of his body. It makes him want to smile and so he does so.

“We’ve been through a lot,” he says quietly. “And I… I don’t want to confuse you or anything. Just because I helped you back there—”

“—and I’ve already said, this was even before any of that.” What happened prior to the time with the Transistor may have been the catalyst of sorts, but that had merely been what it was—the catalyst. The feelings were already there. “What I feel from you isn’t something born from gratitude or hero worship. You… you make me feel human, Hank. And that’s just one of the many reasons why I—why I love you.”

Connor hadn’t meant to say those words, but they had slipped out anyway. Almost instantly he feels the sudden twitch of Hank’s hands where they rest against the sides of his face when the human flinches. He knows the reaction is involuntary—almost instinctive, in a sense, but that doesn’t help to stop the growing anxiety that gnaws at the pit of his non-existent stomach.

Hank lets out a slow breath this time. “Love, huh?” he mutters.

Even if it had not been intentional, there is no taking the words back now. Connor forces himself to nod.

“Yes,” he returns, hoping that he can only seem as steady as he hopes to feel. “I love you, Hank.”

The music from the record continues to play, filling in the quiet between them, but it does nothing to ease the ever growing uncertainty that bites at Connor. Part of him wants to calculate the possibilities and probabilities of what Hank might say and do just to ease his own worries, but that would be the same as treating Hank like a criminal. Which is the last thing that Connor wants to do. 

The only thing that Connor can do is to wait and hope—just like a human.

 

_I will always find you  
Like it’s written in the stars  
You can run but you can’t hide  
Try_

 

This time it is Hank who breaks the silence. “When I got the call from Markus I thought… I thought I’d lost you for good.”

His hands tighten around Connor’s face at this point. The force that Hank uses though is hardly enough to hurt normal human flesh, let alone his synthetic one that is significantly more durable. Connor detects a small rise in stress levels from Hank, but the hold he has on his face is clearly helping somehow. And its not like he minds at all, if he has anything to say about it. He’s more than happy to feel Hank’s touch after all this time, even if this is a little bit unconventional. 

“I thought you might be gone forever,” Hank continues to say, drawing Connor out from his thoughts. “And I thought to myself: not again. I don’t want to lose somebody close to me again. So when Kamski gave the chance I just jumped right in without even thinking.”

The significance of those words do not pass by Connor. _I don’t want to lose somebody close to me again._ There’s no need to guess why the ‘again’ is there, but for Hank to even think those thoughts in the first place…

Connor reaches up with one of his hands and gently wraps his fingers around Hank’s wrist, fingers resting above his pulse point. His sensors automatically take Hank’s heartrate but Connor dismisses the readings even before he gets to see them. Those numbers aren’t as important as Hank is right now. 

“You helped me,” he says, stating the words in the most plaintive manner because it is the truth and nothing more. “And if you weren’t there I don’t think I could have ever managed to break free at all. You gave me the chance for all of this, and I don’t want to waste it again.”

It takes a moment, but then Connor sees the corner of Hank’s eyes crinkling up, and the man is suddenly smiling down at him. “Again, you said?”

No reason to hide it now. Connor nods. “I’ve always wanted to tell you but I—I couldn’t, not when I knew I was still a threat. I would not dare to risk you for something as insignificant as my feelings.”

Hank narrows his eyes at that response, lips pressed into a thin line. “Your feelings aren’t insignificant, Connor.”

Connor shakes his head, almost vehemently. “They are when your life is in danger.” He couldn’t risk that. He could never risk something like that. 

“...then, if we’re gonna do this, then there’s one thing you should know.”

The words confuse Connor, and he shows as much. He looks up at Hank with a quizzical expression, head tilted to the side. “What is it?” he asks.

Hank uses the hand that Connor isn’t touching to reach down and wrench him up by the collar in order to bring their lips together for a kiss.

 

_I will always find you  
Like it’s written in the stars  
You can run but you can’t hide  
Try_

 

The kiss is brief and incredibly chaste in its nature, but yet Connor feels as if as million volts has decided to run through his system. He feels like he’s suspended upon a chasm, dangling in the air with nothing else but Hank’s lips and Hank’s hands to keep him afloat. 

Before he can even start to process a way to respond Hank pulls away, and even with how chaste the kiss had been there’s already a ruddy flush on Hank’s cheeks. The embarrassment is clear, but Hank manages to put it aside in order to finish his words to Connor.

“Never put me before you,” he says, gaze trained on Connor once more. “If we do this then we’re partners in this together.”

Connor blinks as he digests the words. Partners… yes, he thinks he would like that. Partners, in every sense of the word. He will definitely like that.

A nod. “Partners,” he agrees. “Equals.”

Hank cracks a proper smile for the first time this whole night, and Connor quickly takes a snapshot of it to preserve in his memory.

“Yeah,” he returns, leaning in so that their foreheads touch, tightening his grip on Connor’s clothes. “Equals.”

Connor returns Hank’s smile with his own, and they lean in for another kiss as the music player belts out the last lyrics of its song.

 

_I will always, always find you  
I will always_

 

●

_fin._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is _Paper Boats_ , the ending theme for Transistor! Listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFrjMq4aL-g). Its honestly beautiful and this chapter did not do it justice u_u
> 
> also honestly there was porn planned for this bonus chapter but then this whole thing got too feelsy and I chickened out
> 
> SO LET ME KNOW HERE IF YOU WANT CUTE FLUFFY PORN AS A SEQUEL I GUESS?? It'll probably be a separate fic if I do it tho. Probably. I'll debate on that further in the future. But do let me know if you want some sweet robo loving in the future I guess. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for all the support on this fic guys. See you all in the near future. :3


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